THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

Irving  pichel 

PRESENTED  BY 

Mrs.  Irving  Pichel 


DRAMAS  FOR  THE  THEATRE  OF  TO-MORROW 
NUMBER  ONE:  GUILTY  SOULS 


DRAMAS    FOR    THE    THEATRE    OF    TO-MORROW 


A  great  public  should  be  reverenced,  not  used  as 
children  are  when  pedlars  wish  to  hook  money 
from  them  .  .  .  The  public  you  may  flatter ,  as 
you  do  a  well-loved  child,  to  better,  to  enlighten 
it;  not  as  you  do  a  pampered  child  of  quality,  to 
perpetuate  the  error  you  profit  from. 

GOETHE:  Wilhelm  Meister 


Drama  deals  with  the  passions.  In  England 
dramatists  and  actors  seem  to  be  out  to  please  a 
public — a  certain  public,  not  the  People — which 
has  a  certain  terror  lest  a  scrap  of  real  passion  peep 
out  at  it.  Dramatist  and  actor  succeed  in  pleasing 
and  becoming  mild  in  doing  so  .  .  .  tame  mild- 
ness is  not  serenity. 

GORDON  CRAIG:  The  Theatre  Advancing 


BY    THE    SAME    AUTHOR 
POETRY 

INVOCATION  (Elkin  Mathews) 
ARDOURS  AND  ENDURANCES  (Stokes) 
AURELIA  (Button) 

PROSE 

FANTASTICA,  being  the  Smile  of  the  S-phinx  and  other  Tales 
of  Imagination  (shortly) 


DRAMAS    FOR    THE    THEATRE    OF    TO-MORROW 


GUILTY   SOULS 

A  DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


BY 
ROBERT  NICHOLS 

Professor  of  English  Literature  in  the  Chair  of  Lafcadio 
Ilearn.  Imperial  University,  Tokio 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
ROBERT  NICHOLS 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation  into  foreign 
languages.  All  acting  rights,  both  professional  and  amateur, 
including  motion  picture  rights,  are  reserved  in  the  United  States, 
Great  Britain,  and  all  countries  of  the  Copyright  Union,  by  the 
author.  Performances  forbidden  and  right  of  presentation 
reserved.  Application  should  be  made  to  James  B.  Pinker  and 
Son,  Talbot  House,  Arundel  Street,  Strand,  London. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


This  the  American  edition  of 
my  first  flay  to  two  who,  with-  K/ ZTy^j 
out  knowing  it,  did  so  much 
to  influence  my  spirit  in  the 
direction  here  taken:  FLOR- 
ENCE LAMONT  and  GABRIELLE 
CHANLER. 


855310 


CONTENTS 

Preface  Page     xi 

Guilty  Souls.      Act  I  1 

II  59 

III  95 

IV  129 

Production  Note  179 


NOTE 


The  persons  and  events  portrayed  in  this  play  are 
imaginary.  No  reference  is  made  to  any  living 
person. 

ROBERT  NICHOLS 


INVOCATION 

for 

ALL  COMRADES  OF  ALL   NATIONS  WHERESOEVER 
THOSE  COMRADES  BE 

Whose   are   the   heights   of   love,   of   power   of 
thought? — 

Not  his  whose  eyes  turned  inward  sadly  scan 
The  conflict  which  desire  of  these  has  brought 

Between  what  he  would  do  and  deems  he  can. 

Let  to  yourself  yourself  remain  obscure, 

What  is  without  survey.    Then  from  the  steep 

Toward  the  height,  with  eye  keen,  with  foot  sure 
Over  sheer  Nothing's  brink  essay  to  leap. 

What  though  your  body  to  the  cornice  clings, 
Though  scarce  thj  uncertain  foot  obeys  your 
will?— 

Full  oftentimes  the  gods  have  granted  wings 
To  such  as  proved  his  courage,  not  his  skill! 

And  do  you  fall,  clasped  in  your  very  hand 

Flames  up  the  soul  you  knew  not  yours  till  now, 

And  by  its  brightness  those  who,  doubtful,  stand 
May  see  to  dare  that  dire  leap  to  the  brow! 


PREFACE 

to  be  read  AFTER  the  'play 

II  n'appartient  qu'au  courage  de  regler  la  vie. 

VAUVERNAGUES 

We  live  in  this  world  only  that  we  may  go  onward  with- 
out ceasing.  MOZART 

Thou   wert   born    not   when    thou   choosest,    but   when    the 
world  had  need  of  thee.  EPICTETUS 

Why  Write  a  Play? 

1  WROTE  this  play  because  I  considered  I  had 
something  to  say  which  could  best  be  said  in 
the  form  of  a  play  and  because  I  earnestly  de- 
sire to  do  what  I  can  to  aid  the  renaissance  of  the 
British  theatre.    Shortage  of  good  plays  is  one  of 
the  reasons  why  that  renaissance  is  slow.     The 
only  way  to  learn  to  write  a  good  play  is  to  start 
writing  a  play  as  well  as  one  knows  how. 

The  Genro  and  the  Pups 

In  (his  far  land  of  Japan,  in  which  I  am  at  present 
residing,  there  are  three  or  four  Very  Old  Men  of 
terrific  reputation.  These  are  the  original  makers 
of  the  New  Japan  or  those  whom  the  original 
makers  have  co-opted.  Their  record  is  amazing. 
Undoubtedly  they  have  performed  almost  mira- 
cles. They  have  become  legendary  within  their  own 
lifetimes.  The  title  they  bear  is  that  of  the  Genro 
or  Elder  Statesmen:  a  highly  honourable  title. 
But  old  men  are  old  men  the  world  over,  and 

xi 


GUILTY     SOULS 

in  like  manner  also  young  men  are  young  men. 
There  are  not  wanting  those  who  hint  that  the 
day  of  the  Very  Old  Men  is  over:  in  short,  that 
the  Very  Old  Men  are  now  a  mere  useless  brake 
on  the  wheel  of  things,  setting  up  a  squeal  and 
friction,  and  necessitating,  by  the  assiduity  with 
which  they  cling  to  the  wheel,  a  phenomenal 
waste  of  energy.  So  it  has  come  that  among  cer- 
tain sections  of  the  community — among  the  more 
daring  and  hilarious  of  the  young — that  the  title 
Genro  remains  no  longer  the  exclusive  designation 
of  certain  eminent  statesmen,  but  is  applied, 
good-humouredly  enough,  to  a  very  large  class  of 
persons  the  counterpart  of  which  is  not  un- 
recognizable in  the  West.  At  the  same  time,  it 
must  be  remembered  that  the  title  Genro  is  one 
of  honour  in  Japan.  Would  that  it  were  so  in  the 
West!  In  all  the  West  what  makers  of  nations 
have  we  seen  in  the  last  twenty  years  save  Presi- 
dent Wilson,  Professor  Masaryk,  and  Mr.  Veni- 
zelos?  Internationalist  or  nationalist,  these  three 
informed  whole  communities  with  their  spirit.  Not 
one  of  them  is  an  Englishman.  One  only  man  can 
we  claim,  whose  voice,  a  voice  almost  religious, 
is  as  the  voice  of  one  in  the  wilderness:  Jan 
Smuts,  a  Dutchman.  No,  in  England  there  are 
no  true  Genro :  there  is  only  a  phalanx  of  creatures 
to  whom  the  term  Genro  can  be  applied  without 
the  good  humour  of  the  young  Japanese  and  with 
all  their  impatience  and  bitterness.  Otherwhere, 
scattered  up  and  down  England,  belonging  to 
something  vaguely  known  in  the  reviews,  for  want 
xii 


PREFA  CE 

of  a  better  title,  as  the  Intelligencia,  are  a  number 
of  younger  individuals  of  both  sexes,  this  number 
being  designated  by  the  aforesaid  English  Genro 
as  the  Selfish  Young  or  the  Unlicked  Pups. 
These  Selfish  Young,  these  Unlicked  Pups, 
present  a  very  curious  exterior.  Taller,  generally, 
than  the  Genro,  and  more  physically  fit  (save  when 
they  have  had  the  misfortune  to  stop  a  bullet 
defending,  as  the  Genro  newspapers  assert,  the 
Genro's  home),  they  bear  on  their  faces  a  certain 
highly  unbecoming  expression.  The  substance  of 
this  expression  is  variously  reported  in  the  Genro 
newspapers,  together  with  only  too  well-founded 
plaints  as  to  the  utter  abandonment  of  deportment 
displayed  by  these  Pups,  in  that  they  continue  im- 
penitently  unaware  of  the  National  Importance  of 
Wearing  Stiff  Collars  and  of  Preferring  Cricket 
to  Tennis.  Certain  characteristics  of  this  expression 
have,  however,  been  more  or  less  agreed  upon. 
Among  others  are  the  following:  "  sullen,"  "  reck- 
less and  brazen,"  "  hard,"  "  petulant,"  "  openly 
disrespectful  "  (so  much  less  edifying  than  cov- 
ertly disrespectful),  "  discontented,"  "  heartless," 
"  anarchistic,"  "  irreligious,"  "  conceited,"  "  over- 
weening," "  argumentative,"  etc.,  etc.  See  The 
Times,  The  Morning  Post,  Daily  Telegraph, 
Spectator;  The  Day  Before  Yesterday:  Reminis- 
cences of  a  Fairer  Age,  by  Timothy  Genro ;  The 
Young  Woman  of  To-day:  an  Exposure  without 
Prejudice,  by  Tabitha  and  Matilda  Genro;  What 
is  a  Gentleman?  an  article  by  Tobias  Genro,  J.P., 
ex-M.P.j  The  Cult  of  the  Morbid,  by  Sir  Robert- 

xiii 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

son  Genro  j  The  Salacity  of  the  Modern  Novel,  by 
Clement  Genro ;   The  Cult  of  Sans-culottism,  by 
Edward   Genro,   R.A.j    Music   and  Moral   De- 
cadence, by  Marsyas  McGenro  (President  of  the 
Orpheus   Academy   of    Music);    The   Curse    of 
Feminism,  by  Jacintha  Genro-Smith  (late  Head- 
mistress of  St.  Sophie's)  j  The  Curse  of  Socialism, 
by  Professor  Mouldiwarp  Genro-Robinson ;   The 
Curse  of  Freethought,  by  Principal  Genro-Jonesj 
Where  are  we  Going?  or,  the  Curse  of  Optimism, 
by  "Genro,"  of  the  Daily  Prestidigitator;    The 
Fallacy  of  Truth,  by  St.  Thomas  Genro  (late  Edi- 
tor of  Quintessence,  a  quarterly) ;  The  Fallacy  of 
Freedom,  by  Richard  Genro  (Editor  of  Byepaths, 
the  progressive  monthly)  j  The  Fallacy  of  Faith, 
The  Fallacy  of  Hope,  The  Fallacy  of  Charity — 
Three  Booklets  Contributary  to  a  Brighter  Mor- 
row, by  Henry  Genro   (Member  of  Parliament 
for  Little  Wiggleston,   Member  of  the  United 
Churches  Council,  Associate  of  the  Academy  of 
Sciences  and  the  Society  of  Letters,  author  of 
The  Decay   of  Knowledge,    The  Death-Bed  of 
Democracy,  The  Doom  of  Science,  and  of  the 
famous  Short  Cuts  to  Safety ;  also,  in  collaboration 
with  Mrs.  Genro-Smythe,  the  popular  novelist,  of 
Crumbs  of  Comfort:  an  Old-fashioned  Novel; 
and  with   Lady   Blanche   Bittersweet-Genro,   of 
Genro  Park,  of  The  Infallibles,  a  Modern  Satirical 
Comedy  in  Five  Acts  with  Epilogue).    There  is 
no  need  to  quote  further  authorities.     Now,  as 
ever,  we  may  leave  these  to  speak  for  themselves. 
Henceforward  the  reader  will  experience  no  diffi- 
xiv 


PREFACE 

culty  in  gathering  to  whom  I  refer  when  I  speak 
of  the  Pups,  since  the  Pups  have  been  so  definitely 
described  by  the  Genro  that  the  rawest  policeman 
could  detect  them,  the  only  remaining  wonder 
being  that  the  said  policeman  has  not  shut  them 
up.  But  perhaps  the  decadence  so  universally 
prevalent,  if  we  are  to  trust  the  Genro,  has  reached 
High  Places,  or  there  does  exist  some  sort  of  Hid- 
den Hand  or  Reactionary  Party,  such  as  the  Pups 
are  sometimes  heard  to  hint  at,  which  still  con- 
tinues to  believe  in  the  myths  of  Habeas  Corpus 
and  Freedom  of  Opinion  so  justly  exploded  during 
the  Post-War  Period. 

This  much  then  by  way  of  definition.  Let  us 
return  to  the  play. 

More  Reasons  for  Writing  a  Play 
But  the  desire  to  create  a  work  of  art  in  the  form  of 
a  drama  was  not  the  only  reason  which  led  me  to 
write  Guilty  Souls.  Other  themes,  suitable  to  the 
form  of  a  drama,  were  not  lacking.  Why,  then, 
did  I  do  it?  and  for  whom  did  I  do  it? 

I  did  it  to  satisfy  certain  needs  of  my  own,  later 
to  be  explained,  which  are  not  without  their  bear- 
ing on  the  question  of  for  whom  it  was  written, 
since,  an  impenitent  Pup  myself,  I  was  selfish 
enough  to  write  it  not  for  you,  Genro,  if  by  any 
mischief  of  the  Eternal  Humorist  you  have  had 
the  ill  fortune  to  chance  upon  this  pet  particular 
volume  of  mine,  but  for  the  other  Selfish  Young, 
those  many  Unlicked  Pups  who  have  acquired 
that  taste  for  using  their  heads  instead  of  their 

XV 


GUILTY     SOULS 

hands  and  preferring  paper  and  ink  to  leather  and 
willow  which  you  deplore  so  much.  Yet  what 
matter?  I  am  not  writing  this  for  you.  Settle 
into  your  chair.  Ring  the  bell.  "  Another  muf- 
fin, please,  and,  Waiter,  a  sheet  of  notepaper:  I 
must  write  to  The  Times.  .  .  .  Now,  what  shall  I 
say  of  this  disgusting  young  man  who  asserts  that 
he  is  going  to  disregard  me  and  address  himself 
to  other  young  men — and  young  women,  too 
(mark  you!)?  We  have  educated  them,  and — 
what  is  the  world  coming  to? — they  have  taken 
advantage  of  it.  And  yet,  maybe,  it  will  be  best  to 
practise  self-restraint,  to  show  him  a  good 
example,  perhaps  write  to  him  privately.  A  word 
in  season  from  One-who-has-been- Young,  One- 
who-Knows.  .  .  .  Thank  you,  Waiter,  you  may 
take  the  writing  paper  away.  .  .  .  Best  of  all, 
surely,  not  to  write  this  time:  stay  the  hand  until 
he  commits  himself  again,  and  then  ask  Albert 
Genro  and  Mrs.  Winter-Genro  and  General 
Genro  and  Admiral  Genro  and  Sir  Autumn  Genro 
to  join  with  me,  thus  forming  a  circle  truly  repre- 
sentative of  what  is  best  in  the  nation,  in  order  to 
conduct  a  little  Mission  of  Enlightenment  among 
the  Young,  using  this  young  man  and  his  mis- 
guided associates  as  text." 

Counter-attack  Provocative 

But  perhaps,  O  Genro,  I  will,  after  all,  write  for 

you.     You  are  not  likely  to  read  it.     And  if  you 

do,   you   may   enjoy   the   humour.     Humour   is 

one   of   your  strong   points.     You   believe   in   a 

xvi 


PREFA  CE 

Sense  of  Humour.  So  do  we.  But  not  all  the 
time.  Not  when  we  are  discussing  our  private 
affairs,  any  more  than  when  you  are  discussing 
them  for  us.  If  hereafter  you  should  notice  an 
occasional  unexpected  exercise  of  the  sense,  I  beg 
you  to  be  assured  that  its  use  is  the  sincerest  form 
of  flattery.  "  Well-formed,  healthy  children," 
remarks  Goethe  in  Wilhelm  M.euter*s  Travels, 
"bring  much  into  the  World  along  with  them: 
Nature  has  given  to  each  whatever  he  requires  for 
time  and  duration ;  to  unfold  this  is  our  duty.  .  .  . 
One  thing,  however,  there  is  which  no  child 
brings  into  the  World  with  him,  and  yet  it  is  on 
this  one  thing  that  all  depends  for  making  man 
in  every  point  a  man:  that  thing  is  Reverence!  " 
You,  who,  it  is  understood,  consider  yourself  in 
all  points  men,  have  reverenced  nothing  of  ours, 
of  those  according  to  you  so  much  nearer  the 
child.  To-day  you  are  being  paid  in  your  own  coin. 

The  Attack  Called  off 

And  yet  even  at  this  hour  did  you  show  any  sign 
not  merely  of  comprehension,  but  even  of  en- 
deavouring to  comprehend,  how  gladly  would  we 
join  with  you  in  trying  in  these  difficult  years  to 
save  the  soul  of  England,  and,  aye,  of  Europe 
now  so  mortally  sick!  But  perhaps  it  is  already 
too  late.  Sometimes  we  feel  in  us  your  oppor- 
tunism, your  corruption,  above  all  your  cynicism 
— and  of  many  wrongs  that  is  the  worst  and  the 
least  endurable.  When  so  we  feel  the  knife  is 
raised  to  cut  us  away  from  you  for  ever. 

xvii 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

Macaulay's  New  Zealander  on  the  Ruins 
Do  not  think  this  attitude  of  ours  is  a  product 
solely  of  the  War  and  will  pass  with  other  attitudes 
so  engendered,  though  the  War  and  its  betrayals 
has  inflamed  our  emotion  to  such  a  passion  that  it 
is  not  untrue  to  say  that  up  and  down  England 
there  exists  a  considerable  body  of  young  men  and 
women,  otherwise  counted  sane  and  even  useful 
members  of  Society,  who  hate  you,  cordially  hate 
you.  That  is  the  plain  truth.  It  is  very  probably 
unreasonable  that  they  should  so  hate  you.  But 
it  is  understandable,  and,  if  it  is  not  understand- 
able, it  is  nevertheless  a  fact.  It  is  not  a  fact  that 
pleases  this  particular  Pup.  I  feel  no  glee  at  it. 
So  unusual  a  social  pain  is  witness  to  an  un- 
common wound.  I  do  not  rejoice  in  the  division. 
I  have  had  and  still  have  friends  among  the  less 
Genroesque  of  the  Genro.  I  am  sorry  if  I  hurt 
them.  But  a  fact  is  a  fact,  and  this  is  one  that 
requires,  more  than  most  of  the  facts  disliked  by 
the  Genro,  to  be  faced.  In  the  process  of  finding 
my  way  East  I  have  spoken  to  no  small  number  of 
Pups,  Pups  who  had  worked  or  fought  in  the 
War  and,  with  one  exception  out  of  sixteen  young 
men  and  women,  all  asserted  that  they  had  left 
England  or  returned  to  their  old  jobs,  which  they 
disliked,  because  they  feared  infection.  "  There 
has  been  something  wrong  with  the  country  for 
a  long  time,"  they  complained  j  "  we  see  it  is  no 
place  for  the  young."  Said  one,  "  I  would  rather 
die  on  a  rubber  plantation,  which  is  what  I  am 
xviii 


PRE  FA  CE 

due  to  do,  than  have  the  choice  of  living  like  a 
parasite  or  drinking  myself  to  death  at  home. 
I  am  a  Colonial.  They  entertained  us,  they 
made  a  fuss  of  us — as  was  not  unnatural  since 
we  were  of  an  allied  nation,  that  is,  a  Dominion. 
But  they  thought  we  were  schoolboys.  They 
treated  us  like  schoolboys.  They  lectured  and 
petted  us  like  schoolboys,  and  we  just  saw  the 
same  treatment  being  meted  out  to  the  young  men 
and  women  of  the  country — only  there  was  more 
lecture  and  less  petting.  And  the  lectures!  My 
God! — Sexual  morality  from  those  who  were 
against  any  but  the  sexual  instruction  of  a  maiden 
aunt!  Political  morality  from  a  House  of  Com- 
mons that  is  a  closed  house  to  any  member  with 
twopennyworth  of  independent  spirit  or  sin- 
cerity! Social  morality  from  the  profiteers! 
International  morality  from  the  supporters  of 
Versailles!  And  when  it  wasn't  morality  it  was 
the  want  of  religion  or  faith  or  charity  in  the 
young!  During  the  time  I  was  in  England  I  never 
met  a  man  over  forty  who  was  in  any  sense  a 
citizen  of  to-day.  They  can't  see  that  colossal 
changes  have  come  over  the  earth  and  that  our 
religion,  our  faith,  and  our  charity  are  things  that 
have  nothing  to  do  with  their  forms  of  those 
things.  Why,  the  landscape  in  England  is  simply 
littered  with  skeletons  of  extinct  institutions! 
To  live  in  England  is  like  trying  to  live  in  a  house 
which  has  a  corpse  sitting  in  state  in  each  room — 
and  every  manjack  of  a  corpse  attended  by  several 
hundred  elderly  courtiers  who  introduce  you  to  it 

xix 


GU  I  LTY     SOULS 

and  bid  you  shake  it  by  the  hand  and  obey  some- 
thing it  was  said  to  have  said  to  their  fathers 
sixty  years  ago  in  a  different  house.  No,  sir,  we 
may  be  crude,  we  are  crude  j  we  may  be  raw,  we 
are  raw;  but  we  are  men  enough  to  know  that 
there  is  neither  truth,  morality,  nor  justice,  in  any 
modern  sense  of  those  words,  in  England  to-day, 
and  so  we  are  in  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  our 
countries  or  off  to  any  job  we  can.  And  I  advise 
you — yes,  you,  sir — to  do  the  same.  Go  to  a 
Dominion.  If  you  can't  help  build  England  from 
within  you  may  be  able  to  help  build  from  with- 
out. And  it  might  be  good  for  the  Dominions, 
too.  They  are  not  bold  enough:  they  want  some 
husky  writers  who  are  not  afraid  to  put  it  over — 
to  tell  England  that  her  capital  is  no  longer  West- 
minster, but  wherever  over  the  wide  world  there 
are  gathered  together  half  a  dozen  men  and  women 
of  our  nations  believing  in  that  England  which 
your  elder  folks  have  never  seen  or  guessed  at 
and  for  which  our  pals  died  or  are  working! 
Being,  as  a  Colonial,  better  educated  in  essentials 
than  the  home  product,  he  could  express  himself 
with  precision.  But  the  substance  of  his  remarks 
was  common  to  all.  So  much  for  the  Colonial. 

Outside  England,  Beyond  Euro-pe 
Sitting  in  this  little  room  in  the  capital  city  of 
strangers  of  another  race  and  colour,  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  world,  I  become  sensible  of  immense 
distance,  as  if  I  were  upon  another  planet.  Out- 
side the  crickets  screech  and  the  night-watchman 
xx 


PREFA  CE 

passes  clacking  his  rattle,  or  the  blind  masseur, 
threading  the  mazes  of  the  immense  warren,  cries 
his  melancholy  cry.  The  inalterable  strangeness 
of  those  sounds  and  the  overpowering  sadness  I 
feel  when  I  hear  them  are  the  witnesses  of  my 
harrowing  isolation.  Here  all  has  passed  away 
save  hope :  "  the  second  soul  of  the  unhappy," 
Goethe  terms  it.  The  still  light  of  the  reading 
lamp  falls  on  the  backs  of  the  books  in  the  shelves 
and  the  few  open  books  upon  the  work-table.  Be- 
hold the  immortals:  those  over  whom  time  and 
place  have  no  dominion,  who,  speaking  to  me, 
would  comfort  me  were  I  in  heaven  or  hell. 
Heroic  forms  filled  with  ardour  and  compassion! 
— your  dearness  to  me  is  the  measure  of  my  sor- 
row: for  your  tongues  are  not  tongues  to  which 
those  who  are  said  to  lead  my  country  would  lis- 
ten. Those  who  lead  my  country  do  not  seem  to 
see  that  she,  who  in  the  past  has  captained  Europe, 
to-day  stands,  certainly  no  less  than  Europe  stands, 
in  need  of  that  which  saves.  During  the  last  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years  a  greater  change  has  come 
over  the  position  of  man  than  since  the  death  of 
Christ.  The  hour  is  without  precedent  and  de- 
mands unprecedented  effort.  Prometheus  is  on 
the  brink  of  victory  or  of  defeat,  and,  if  he  is 
defeated,  not  Zeus  will  have  slain  him,  but  he 
himself  with  his  own  hands. 

Yet  no  one  seems  to  see  it  save  the  Scientists, 
a  few  of  the  Selfish  Young  and  the  much  derided, 
the  much  long-suffering  leaders  of  the  Selfish 
Young — those  who  did  so  much  to  bring  us  light 

xxi 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

and  now  continue  the  struggle  amid  the  deepening 
darkness.  Some  few  of  the  Genro,  those  who, 
occupying  the  highest  positions  on  the  Towers  of 
Government,  have  become  thereby  more  sensible 
to  the  vibration  of  the  earthquake,  sound  from 
time  to  time  a  blast  or  two  of  warning.  "  We  are 
all  threatened;  "  they  cry,  "there  are  forces  at 
work  of  a  depth  unknown.  Make  haste,  or  it  will 
be  too  late  to  save  your  goods!  " 

But  I,  sitting  with  the  ageless  immortals  open 
before  me,  read  from  their  pages  a  different 
evangel:  "Save  your  souls!  Doubt  and  perish, 
or  believe  and  be  saved!  Genros,  cease  to  be 
Genrosj  and  young  men,  cease  to  be  cynical 
Hamlets  or  Don  Juans  who  have  ceased  even  to 
believe  in  Don  Juanism.  Arise — the  hour  of 
Faust  and  of  Prometheus  is  at  hand!  J: 

Classical  Protest,  together  with  Scandalous  Con- 
duct of  the  Youngest  Clubman 
The  member  wakes  in  his  chair.  The  Times  has 
fallen  over  his  face,  blotting  out  the  sky.  Surely 
he  has  been  dreaming.  Horrible !  It  must  have 
been  the  muffin.  .  .  . 

But  it  was  not  the  muffin. 

He  observes  the  gaze  of  the  Youngest  Member 
— how  did  that  mere  pup  get  elected? — fixed  upon 
him  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  die.  "  Ah,  so  he  wants 
the  Times,  does  he?  Well,  I  haven't  read  it,  but 
I  suppose  he  must  have  it.  No  manners,  these 
Pups.  Fancy  looking  at  me  like  that!  And  his 
smile.  I  don't  like,  I  don't  trust  it.  Queer,  not 
xxii 


PREFA  CE 

like  an  ordinary  smile.  H'm,  I  see  he  has  some 
apparatus  strapped  over  his  breast — he  has  been 
wounded  nigh  the  heart.  Certainly  he  has  been 
wounded  by  the  mouth — as  if  he  has  received  a 
buffet  on  it.  That  accounts  for  the  smile.  He  is 
looking  at  me  again  over  the  paper.  Now  he 
will  speak — confound  it,  people  shouldn't  speak 
in  clubs.  Ah,  but  he  can't  ...  I  see  it  now:  he's 
dumb.  Poor  fellow!  Poor  fellow!  And  yet, 
perhaps — temporarily  speaking,  of  course — just 
as  well.  He  may  be  a  friend  of  the  Johnny  who 
wrote  that  book.  One  never  knows,  one  can't 
trust  the  Young — never  could.  But  one  did  hope 
the  War  had  turned  them  into  men.  And  yet 
they  are  as  bad  as  ever.  Always  the  same:  once 
it  was  Socialism,  Feminism,  Atheism — now  it  is 
God-alone-knows-what." 

But  the  Youngest  Member  does  not  cease  to 
stare.  The  great  room  is  darkening.  Outside  the 
buses  rumble  by,  shaking  the  Club  as  if  with  the 
preliminary  roll  of  a  vast  earthquake.  The  body 
of  the  Youngest  Member  becomes  immensely 
long,  and  the  legs  and  feet  stick  gauntly  out  from 
beneath  the  sheets  of  The  Times  like  the  legs  and 
feet  of  a  corpse  whose  shroud  is  too  short.  The 
lessening  twilight  in  the  window  behind  the 
Youngest  Member  gives  to  the  silhouette  of  his 
bristling  head  and  emaciated  shoulders  the  appear- 
ance of  a  Don  Quixote  at  once  absurdly  young 
and  immensely  old.  He  has  become  very  still  and 
his  cheeks  very  colourless,  but  his  eyes  in  their 
shadowy  sockets  are  motionlessly  bent  upon  the 

xxiii 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

member  seated  by  the  half -empty  plate  of  muffins. 
A  cold  blue  light,  that  looks  first  like  a  star  and 
then  like  a  tear,  but  which  at  last  resolves  itself 
into  nothing  but  a  cold  blue,  impartial  and  scientific 
glare  kindles  in  those  strange  orbs.  The  member 
with  the  muffins  finds  his  gaze  held  by  that  gaze. 
He  cannot  turn  his  glance  away,  and  he  begins 
(against  his  will)  to  read  the  thoughts  passing  in 
the  brain  of  the  dumb,  thoughts  straying  out  of 
those  fixed  eyes  in  which  an  unknown  light  seems 
curdled  and  frozen. 

"  Time  will  give  us  our  way,  until  we  in  turn 
are  superseded  .  .  .  though  I  would  have  you 
note  here  that  what  has  struck  most  of  us  about 
you,  Genro,  is  neither  your  hypocrisy,  your 
obstinacy,  nor  your  prejudice  (all  of  which  are  to 
be  found  in  both  Genro  and  Pups,  each  after  his 
kind),  but  your  quite  unlooked-for  stupidity.  Yes, 
your  stupidity  is  crushing.  You  have  not  even  the 
sense  to  follow  your  own  instincts  of  compromise. 
Some  of  you  whine  at  us,  some  of  you  threaten,  a 
few  of  you,  who  think  yourselves  in  the  vanguard 
while  you  are  really  in  the  guard's  van,  slobber 
over  the  sentimental  images  you  have  made  of  us. 
No  one  among  you,  save  a  few  scientifically- 
minded  persons,  will  try  to  see  that,  though  we  are 
neither  chaste  nor  unselfish,  humble  or  tolerant 
(at  any  rate  in  your  sense  of  the  words),  there  is 
one  virtue,  one  only,  which  cannot  possibly  be 
denied  us,  and  which  in  the  face  of,  I  daresay,  the 
slightly  melancholy  if  good-humoured  derision 
of  youth  itself  I  will  proclaim:  that  virtue  being 
xxiv 


PRE  FA  CE 

Sincerity.  You,  Genro,  complain  that  we  are  not 
as  you  are.  I  can  well  believe  it.  And  we  thank 
heaven  for  it :  because  our  gods  are  not  your  gods, 
and  therefore  your  ways,  by  the  inalterable  logic 
of  sincerity,  cannot  be  our  ways.  We  have  seen 
you  endeavouring  to  eat  your  cake  and  have  it 
too — over  religion,  over  social  relations,  over  sex: 
the  three  sovereign  problems  of  modern  life. 
Christianity  is  not  dead,  but  the  Christianity 
known  to  your  Established  Church  is,  and,  to  our 
nostrils,  its  body  stinks.  Feudalism  is  dead 
because  personal  responsibility  is  no  longer  con- 
nected with  property.  The  late-Victorian  attitude 
over  sex  is  no  longer  workable,  since  it  depended 
ultimately  on  that  Christian  tradition  which  is 
dead  though  Christ  lives.  On  all  these  three 
problems  that  which  was  is  moribund,  and  you, 
Genro,  pretend  that  you  are  not  aware  of  the  fact. 
We  have  only  one  belief,  and  that  is:  if  a  man  has 
a  faith  he  should  live  up  to  it.  We  do  not  see  you, 
Genro,  living  up  to  your  faiths.  '  The  letter 
Killeth.'  In  the  Established  Church  at  present 
Christ  both  is  and  is  not  divine,  the  soul  is 
immortal  but  resurrection  doubtful,  hell  both  is 
and  is  not,  marriage  is  indissoluble  and  dissoluble. 
We  care  not  a  jot  which  is  chosen  so  be  that,  when 
it  is  chosen,  it  is  lived  by  and  lived  for.  Choose 
the  hard  way,  stick  to  the  highest  severities  of 
dogma,  and  you  will  have  but  few  followers  of 
that  fierce  Christ,  it  is  true,  but  they  will  be  real 
followers,  mystics  of  grace  in  the  Pascalian  sense. 
Abolish  the  divinity  of  Christ,  etc.,  make  Christ 

xxv 


GUILTY     SOULS 

a  man  nobler  than  Socrates,  become  secular, 
trusting  to  the  beauty  of  Christ's  character  and  of 
His  saints,  and  you  will  have  many  followers,  for 
you  will  gain  in  breadth  what  you  lose  in  intensity. 
Science  has  not  killed  religion — it  has  merely 
demanded  greater  fruits  of  it.  Conflict  is  not  the 
only  product  and  factor  of  evolution:  mutual  aid 
and  abnegation  are  also  factors  and  products. 
No  pure  knowledge  is  the  enemy  of  religion. 
If  Christ  were  dead  it  would  be  the  Church  that 
had  slain  Him,  not  the  laboratory.  But  Christ  is 
not  dead.  Christ  lives,  and  countless  souls  will  He 
yet  save,  and  among  them  least,  but  not  least 
suffering,  how  many  of  this  generation!  But  He 
will  not  be  your  Christ,  O  Genroj  He  is  more 
likely  to  stand  by  the  barricade  or  at  the  sorrowful 
exit  of  the  brothel  than  by  the  bishop.  He  will 
be  anti-acquisitive,  if  He  is  nothing  else,  not  be- 
cause He  is  against  the  capitalist,  but  because  He 
wishes  to  save  the  soul  of  the  capitalist  by  forcing 
the  capitalist  to  declare  the  capitalist  colours, 
which  are  not  necessarily  those  of  the  devil 
but  are  at  least  those  of  a  man.  Over  social  re- 
lations, too,  a  cowardly  falsity  at  present  persists. 
In  Horseback  Hall  only  a  pretence  of  feudal- 
ism remains.  The  ancient  owners  are  dispos- 
sessed by  those  who  only  play  at  feudalism,  or, 
if  they  remain,  are  not  in  a  position  to  keep  the 
old  system  up  or  discover  to  their  amaze  that  the 
old  system  is  resented.  As  for  the  new  owners 
who  come  down  to  hunt  or  shoot  and  depart  to 
hunt  or  shoot  or  to  manufacture  or  to  conduct  a 
xxvi 


PREFA  CE 

banking  business  elsewhere,  if  the  play  ever  turns 
earnest  they  discover  themselves  in  an  anomalous 
position:  making  money  as  capitalists,  and  trying 
to  spend  it  as  feudal  lords.  But  the  spending  of 
money  in  a  country  district  does  not  constitute 
feudal  lordship,  and,  moreover,  feudalism  and 
modern  capitalism  are  not  at  long  last  truly  com- 
patible. However,  much  abused,  the  most  abused 
of  all,  as  this  class  is,  it  is  in  many  ways  the  best 
class — the  "  upper  "  Genro.  We  would  rather, 
infinitely  rather,  be  found  in  Horseback  Hall  than 
in  Heartbreak  House.  Heartbreak  House  says  it 
believes,  and  denies  what  it  believes  in  its  life. 
Horseback  Hall  has  few  ideas,  and  perhaps  evil 
ideas,  but  it  lives  up  to  them — it  believes  in 
patronizing  the  poor  in  the  country,  and  bullying 
them,  if  it  can,  in  the  town.  Or  it  believes  in  its 
divine  right  (backed  up  by  some  misreading  of 
history  and  science)  of  bullying  them  at  all  times 
and  in  all  places.  Or  it  believes  (rarely)  in  co- 
operation, provided  that  the  inhabitants  of  Horse- 
back Hall  are,  as  they  are  at  home,  always  in  the 
saddle.  But  the  folk  in  Heartbreak  House  believe 
in  nothing  but  self-indulgence.  To  them  ideas 
are  playthings,  and  the  soul-searching  cruelty  of 
ideas  is  only  a  thrill  or  an  anodyne  under  which 
they  can  escape  from  the  hunger  which  devours 
their  beings.  Truly  their  hearts  are  broken — if 
they  ever  had  any.  There  is  only  one  cure  for 
these — that  is,  to  act.  But  they  cannot,  or  will  not, 
act — they  believe  in  nothing  sufficiently  or  in  all 
things  sufficiently  to  keep  them  in  balanced 

xxvii 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

immobility  save  for  flirtation  with  a  new  person  or 
idea.  But  no  one  has  truly  possessed  an  idea  until 
he  or  she  has  tried  to  live  up  to  it.  And  you  must 
live  up  to  the  idea  for  the  idea's  sake,  not  for  the 
sensation  you  will  feel  in  living  up  to  it  or  the 
discovery  of  self  in  the  process.  And  Heartbreak 
House  believes  in  nothing  but  self-indulgence. 
It  cannot  purify  its  motives.  And  therefore  its 
(rare)  deeds  do  not  possess  integrity.  It  pays  too 
much  attention  to  heads  and  legs,  and  not  enough 
to  hearts.  Horseback  Hall  is  either  brutal  and 
never  pretends  to  any  sense  of  personal  honour, 
or,  possessing  personal  honour,  lives  up  to  that 
sense  in  a  noble  way — indeed,  personal  honour 
is  the  first  characteristic  of  many  inhabitants  of 
Horseback  Hall.  Their  standard  of  fair  play  is 
that  of  a  public  school  boy's  First  Eleven,  but  they 
stick  to  it.  They  have,  of  course,  made  all  the 
rules,  and  for  them  these  are  the  only  rules, 
however  rough,  if  ready,  these  rules  may  be. 
But  they  live  up  to  them,  they  banish  from  their 
midst  those  who  do  not  live  up  to  them.  And 
they  never  desert  those  who  keep  them.  There 
is  courage  and  loyalty  in  Horseback  Hall. 
Neither  exists  in  Heartbreak  House.  But  Horse- 
back Hall  is  stupid,  obstinate,  prejudiced  and 
selfish  .  .  . 

Therefore,  says  Youth,  a  plague  on  both  your 
houses!  Beware!  We  have  lately  handled  ma- 
chine-guns— we  may  soon  handle  brooms! 

A  sideways  motion  of  the  Figure-with-the-Eyes 
and  the  sound  of  a  pant  makes  the  member  start 
xxviii 


PREFA  CE 

to  his  feet.  He  will  not  be  threatened.  He  ad- 
vances on  the  Figure.  But,  when  he  bends  over 
it,  he  perceives  something  curious,  and,  glancing 
scaredly  about  the  great  room  in  which  he  and  the 
Figure  are  alone,  he  trembles  from  head  to  foot. 
The  face,  for  all  its  wound,  is  the  face  of  his  own 
son.  He  takes  the  Figure  by  the  coat  as  if  to  shake 
it,  but  lets  go  abruptly.  Again  the  trembling 
seizes  him — this  time  so  powerfully  that  his  teeth 
chatter  in  his  head.  For  suddenly  he  realizes  that 
the  Youngest  Member  is  in  a  trance — some 
dreadful  interior  conflict  oppresses  heart  and 
brain — is  dying — or  already  dead.  With  a  terrible 
cry  the  member  rushes  out  and  can  be  heard 
filling  the  vestibule  with  his  clamour:  "  A 
doctor!  A  doctor!  I  will  give  all  I  have  for  a 
doctor!  Ah,  doctor,  doctor — quick,  quick!  He 
is  my  own  son,  my  own  flesh !  With  all  his  faults 
he  has  still  something  that  I  have  not:  he  still 
has  fight  in  him.  Quick,  quick,  don't  say  it's  too 
late!  You  have  that  which  saves!  You  have  that 
which  saves!  " 

Polite  Query 

Merely  an  allegory:  but  what  I  want  to  know 

is — is  it  too  late? 

The  moral  forces  of  Europe  are  running  low. 
In  England,  the  stablest  country  of  them  all,  dis- 
illusionment, save  perhaps  in  business  circles  (of 
which  we  hear  too  much),  prevails.  There  arises 
no  new  Moral  Factor.  The  scythe  of  Death,  that 
spared  so  many  weeds  among  good  wheat,  spared 

xxix 


GU  I  LTY     SOULS 

not  the  wheat  of  the  fullest  ear.  Of  all  those 
many,  mocked  before  the  War,  those  genii  among 
the  Captains,  Lieutenants,  and  Second-Lieuten- 
ants, what  number  remains?  There  was  your  fu- 
ture! And  where  is  it  now?  Under  the  ground, 
beneath  the  sea,  or,  if  it  lives,  lying  in  the  arm- 
chair with  its  eyes  so  curiously  fixed  upon  the 
Member  who  has  not  yet  put  down  his  Times, 
much  less  read  the  Figure's  eyes  or  run  for  the 
doctor.  .  .  . 

And  meanwhile  the  light  fades,  the  ground 
shakes.  .  .  . 

O  Europe,  Europe,  who  didst  know  Greece  j 
for  whom  the  death  of  an  Eastern  beggar  en- 
gendered awhile  the  greatest  moral  force  in  his- 
tory, binding  the  nations  together  so  that  they 
formed  one  vast  cathedral,  each  class  in  its  place 
in  the  mass  of  living  stone,  lifting  its  pinnacles 
like  hands  outstretched  from  darkness  toward  God  j 
who,  quarrying  the  statues  of  dead  gods,  didst 
chance  once  more  upon  the  body  of  Prometheus 
and  take  from  his  hand  the  fire  of  knowledge  and 
with  this  fire  didst  later  recreate  thy  powers  only 
to  turn  those  powers  to  base  uses  and  to  the  throes 
of  ultimate  battle  nigh  fatal  to  thee,  what  hope 
for  thee  is  there  to-day?  Miserable  art  thou! 
With  thine  own  hands  hast  thou  put  out  thine  eyes; 
with  dust  of  gold  has  thou  stopped  thine  ears. 
Corruption  and  doubt,  the  worm  of  corruption, 
have  eaten  thine  heart.  Greed  and  vanity,  not 
God  and  bravery,  compel  thee! 

The  East  that  watches  thee  mocks  thee  with 

XXX 


PREFA  CE 

austere  eyes,  or,  tainted  with  thy  corruption, 
betrayed  by  thee  and  ready  to  repay  treachery  with 
treachery,  prepares  to  strike  thee  down! 

In  all  the  world  who  shall  save  thee?  Nothing 
without  can  save  thee.  Only  ourselves  can  save 
ourselves.  And  thine  own  sons,  who  might  have 
saved  thee,  hast  thou  put  to  the  sword! 

That  Which  Saves 

What  is  that  which  saves? 

It  is  to  find  a  faith  and  to  live  by  it  and  for  it. 

In  England  to-day  what  moral  forces  are  at 
work?  In  all  ages  it  is  the  minority  who  save,  the 
passionate  few.  While  the  leader  lives,  who  fol- 
low him?  The  passionate  few.  The  majority 
never  appreciate  him  as  sincerely  as  they  appre- 
ciate a  second-rate  man.  We  can  only  truly  ap- 
preciate that  which  is  akin  to  us.  Were  the  leader 
merely  as  we,  he  would  not  lead.  Because  he  is 
Prometheus,  because  the  fire  burns  in  his  hand, 
the  passionate  few  who  recognize  the  fire  follow 
him,  endeavouring  after  their  sort  to  become 
worthy  of  him,  since  the  only  remedy  against  a 
hopeless  superiority  is  love  toward  the  bearer  of 
that  fire  which  cleanses  and  saves.  And  the  ma- 
jority? When  lies  mouldering  the  six  feet  of 
what  was  once  the  engine  of  the  most  powerful 
force  in  the  world,  when  the  peace  Prometheus  has 
earned  has  closed  over  the  darkened  eyes  and  the 
holy  head,  the  majority  will  accept  him.  Why? 
Because  they  have  heard  his  name  so  often.  Up, 
therefore:  lead,  or  find  a  leader. 

xxxi 


GUILTY     SOULS 

Sitting  here  in  my  room  with  the  immortals 
open  before  me,  "  the  crowned,  the  sceptred, 
whose  voices  this  night  chant  a  gloria  in  excelsis  of 
passion  and  awe,"  I  know  that  I  am  not,  that  I 
never  shall  be,  a  leader — indeed,  vainglorious  as 
I  am,  I  never  dreamed  of  it.  But  I  am,  I  shall  be 
ever — Prometheus  aiding  me — one  of  the  pas- 
sionate few.  And  I  ask  you,  you  remnant  of  those 
who  went  out  at  morning  and  at  evening  were  not 
found,  you  who  know  that  because  of  the  suffer- 
ings behind  Man,  the  sufferings  of  leaders  and  of 
the  past  passionate  few,  we  owe  mankind  a  life, 
have  we  the  courage  and  integrity  to  persevere? 
Away  with  Hamlet  and  Don  Juan:  the  Age  of 
the  Romanticism  of  Feeling  is  over  and  the  Age 
of  the  Romanticism  of  Act  begins!  "  For  in  this 
hour,"  cries  Prometheus:  "  those  who  are  not  with 
me  are  against  me.  Who  is  on  my  side,  who?  J: 

Nightwatcher*s  Credo 

Before  the  War  we  believed  in  something  no  man 
has  seen:  we  believed  in  that  England  "  not  made 
with  hands  "  of  which  it  seems  those  who  rule, 
those  who  are  said  to  be  moral  leaders,  for  all  their 
protestations,  appear  to  know  nothing.  Is  there 
in  England  to-day  a  man  or  woman  dares,  in  the 
face  of  ridicule,  in  the  hour  of  the  Prince  of 
This  World,  when  cynicism  is  the  only  fashion 
and  opportunism  the  only  creed,  to  raise  the 
banner,  so  patronizingly  derided  by  the  Old  in 
their  indifference,  so  bitterly  by  the  Young  in 
their  despair,  the  banner  of  the  Ideal? 
xxxii 


PREFA  CE 

Search  your  hearts,  discover  that  in  which  you 
still  believe,  if  power  is  yet  in  you  to  believe. 
The  bodies  of  our  friends  are  scattered  upon  the 
ridges,  upon  the  deserts,  or  sunk  "  deeper  than 
ever  "  plummet  sounded "  beneath  the  squall- 
smitten  seas.  Yet  sometimes  as  I  lie  here,  unable 
for  the  heat  and  weight  of  the  nightwatches  to 
find  sleep,  overwhelmingly  separated  from  the 
few  that  are  left  me,  I  discover  myself  not  so 
alone  as  oftentimes  by  day  under  the  terrible  sun 
I  persuade  myself  that  I  am.  Towards  dawn, 
when  the  trees  about  the  house  are  utterly  still, 
when  the  watchman  has  ended  his  last  round,  I 
hear  rise  from  the  woods  of  distant  France,  from 
the  scaurs  of  the  Balkans,  from  the  sand-flats  of 
Mesopotamia,  from  beneath  the  surges  of  forgot- 
ten Coronel,  the  mysterious  chanting  of  an  im- 
material England's  dead — 

Blessed  be  those  who  for  her  sake  have  died, 
Blessed  be  those  who  for  her  sake  shall  live !  l 

The  First  Move 

In  the  furtherance  of  this  Moral  Renaissance  what 
comes  first? — so  be  it  that  these  poor  fumbling 
words,  ill  messengers  of  tangled  and  disjointed 
thoughts,  the  product  of  feverish  reverie,  fall  not 
on  deaf  ears.  Search  your  hearts,  O  passionate 
few!  In  what  do  we  still  believe?  It  is  not  yet 
too  late.  The  Youngest  Member,  whose  eyes  were 

1  Io  benedico   chi  •per  lei  cadea, 
lo  benedico  chi  per  lei  vivra! 

II  Canto  Dell'  Amore — Carducci. 

xxxiii 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

so  fixed  in  trance,  who  beheld  that  conflict  within 
"  like  a  phantasma  or  a  hideous  dream  "  may  yet 
emerge  from  his  trance  to  live  to  others  and  not 
die  in  himself.  What  have  we?  We  have  first  the 
chance  of  a  solidarity — if  we  care  to  recognize  it 
— psychological,  social,  and  economic.  Few  of  us 
are  rich.  That  is  by  no  means,  perhaps,  a  dis- 
advantage. Socially  we  do  not  care  the  faintest 
damn  for  any  man.  To  us  the  individual  is  merely 
a  person  either  with  us  or  against  us.  With  the 
Labour  Party  and  the  Aristocrats,  it  is  true,  we 
find  ourselves  in  difficulties:  both  are  suspicious 
of  us.  We  have  no  class  interests.  Like  scientists 
and  artists,  we  are  outside  class.  But  the  Aris- 
tocrats will  go — not  that  they  ever  paid  us  any 
attention,  save  when  we  happened  to  be  simultan- 
eously under  the  roof  of  Heartbreak  House — and 
Labour  is  coming  to  discover  its  need  of  us.  For 
Labour  does  need  us,  and  will  need  us  more. 
Labour  has  long  been  hungry,  and,  with  perfect 
justice  behind  cold  calculation,  has  been  bargain- 
ing for  bread.  Hunger  casts  out  all  other  emo- 
tions— as  some  of  us  have  discovered  on  the  march. 
But,  with  a  fuller  stomach,  other  desires  begin  to 
make  themselves  felt.  Those  desires  can,  in  Ber- 
trand  RusselPs  terms,  be  "  possessive  "  or  "  crea- 
tional  "  :  a  Ford  car  or  a  faith.  Man  cannot  live 
by  bread  alone.  If  they  ask  us  for  our  faith, 
what  shall  we  say?  Finally,  and  chiefly,  there  is 
the  psychological  factor. 

The  habit  which  Science  has  brought,  oh,  ever 
so  unperceived  by  those  in  public  life  and  by  the 
xxxiv 


PREFA  CE 

Genro,  of  trying  to  think  impartially  and  of 
admitting  every  kind  of  evidence  even  while 
scrutinizing  it  with  a  severity  that  has  been 
traduced  by  interested  parties,  makes  for  solidarity 
since  it  causes  those  who  compose  this  Young 
Intelligencia  to  exchange  their  ideas  with  no  other 
object  in  view  but  to  find  a  common  basis  on  which 
all  agree,  the  criterion  of  which  shall  be  evident 
truth,  not  policy  or  the  interests  of  a  bloc.  And 
why  is  this?  Because  the  sincerity  of  to-day  is  the 
direct  first  result  of  science  coming  unquestioned 
into  daily  life.  Though  the  later  Victorian  age 
considered  itself  scientific,  it  was,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  nothing  of  the  sort.  Both  Science  and  anti- 
Science  were  too  narrow.  There  were  too  many 
battles — some  of  them  over  supposititious  con- 
flicts. The  Kantian  preoccupation  with  the  ra- 
tional informed  those  desperate,  valiant,  and  occa- 
sionally disgraceful  days.  With  the  coming  of 
Neo-Darwinism  and  the  Pragmatists  a  rarer, 
wider  light  began  to  shine.  For  whether  you  ap- 
prove of  Neo-Darwinism  or  Pragmatism  or  no, 
you  cannot  deny  that  both  make  for  tolerance. 
And  in  true  knowledge  there  can  be  no  room  for 
war  to  the  death. 

A  Play  as  Touchstone 

Apart  from  the  fact  of  "  seeing  "  the  material 
of  this  play  as  the  germ  of  a  work  of  art,  I  have 
written  it,  as  stated  above,  "  to  satisfy  certain  needs 
of  my  own,  which  are  not  without  their  bearing  on 
the  question  of  for  whom  it  was  written." 

XXXV 


GUILTY     SOULS 

I  wish  to  discover,  by  any  reverberations  this 
work  may  set  up,  whether  I  am  alone.  I  wish  this 
play,  such  as  it  is,  if  it  succeeds  in  the  mission  of 
every  work  of  art — that  is,  of  deepening  con- 
sciousness— to  discover  among  whom  it  deepens 
it.  The  Christianity  of  this  play  is  of  the  cruellest 
and  most  violent  kind.  I  "  saw  "  it  after  this 
fashion,  and  therefore  was  compelled  to  write  it 
after  this  fashion.  But  had  I  not  been  compelled, 
had  I  not  envisaged  the  factors  engaged  after 
this  fashion  and  no  other,  if  I  had  been  creating, 
as  no  artist  can  create,  by  pure  intellect  alone 
without  inner  revelation,  I  would  still  have  made 
it  thus.  The  brand  of  Christianity  would  still  have 
been  of  the  most  violent,  crude,  and  uncompromis- 
ing variety — not,  it  is  true,  uncompromising  in  a 
sense  that  might  be  used  by  the  Greek  or  Roman 
Church,  but  uncompromising  in  the  sense  that 
it  would  insist,  as  Pascal  (who  at  the  time  the 
drama  was  being  composed  swayed  me)  insists, 
that  "  Between  us  and  hell  or  heaven  there  is 
nothing  but  the  life  that  is  between  the  two,  which 
is  the  frailest  thing  in  the  world  "j  that  we  must 
wager  on  the  existence  or  non-existence  of  God; 
that  if  He  exists  for  us  His  commands  exist  for 
us  and  we  must  serve  Him  .  .  .  and  if  He  exists 
not  we  must  take  the  responsibility  of  doing 
exactly  what  we  like,  being  perfectly  prepared  to 
commit  any  crime,  care  we  to  do  so,  since  to  re- 
fuse is  to  prove  ourselves  irrational  and  cowardly. 
To  this  extent,  then,  I  wish  to  make  the  play  a 
touchstone.  The  religion  of  this  play,  though  it 
xxxvi 


PREFA  CE 

seems  to  me  to  contain  much  that  must  logically 
follow  from  the  teachings  of  Christ,  is,  of  course, 
not  the  only  Christianity,  and  certainly  makes  no 
claim  to  be  the  only  possible  present-day  religion. 
In  point  of  fact  it  is  not  even  the  religion  of  the 
man  who  made  it,  though  to  some  extent  it  was 
so  once.  But,  as  I  say,  it  is  a  test.  I  am  glad  that 
it  is  put  in  this  violent  form,  because  I  wish  to 
see  whether  others  and  what  others  of  my  age  are 
sensible  of  religion  in  its  violent  form.  I  do  not 
say  that  it  is  better  or  worse  to  feel  things  in  this 
manner — indeed,  I  begin  to  doubt  whether  the 
kind  of  introspective  violence  displayed  by  certain 
of  the  characters  in  this  play  is  sufficiently  con- 
structive to  afford  a  basis  for  more  than  the 
personal  redemption  of  a  rare  and  perhaps  not 
altogether  Promethean  type.  For  in  this  religion 
there  is  no  little  of  the  fakir.  Such  as  it  is,  how- 
ever, is  not  beyond  the  bounds  of  possibility  and 
hope  to  believe  that  it  may  provoke  more  imme- 
diate realization  of  the  need  of  "  that  which 
saves,"  and,  second,  a  research,  such  as  I  have 
spoken  of  above,  as  to  what,  in  the  religious  sense, 
the  Selfish  Young  do  yet  believe.  For  they  stand 
very  definitely  challenged,  not  so  much  by  the 
Genro  as  by  the  needs  of  the  time,  to  discover  in 
what  sense  that  title  is  applicable.  Do  they  glory 
in  it?  Is  it,  when  they  are  pushed  to  a  funda- 
mental declaration,  their  religion,  this  Selfishness, 
as  it  was  Max  Stirner's,  as  with  modifications  it  has 
been  the  creed  of  many  eminent  men?  Or  do 
they  disavow  it?  And,  if  so,  what  is  their  creed? 

xxxvii 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

For  if  they  think  they  are  beyond  religion  I  take 
leave  to  doubt  them,  as  the  Genro — albeit  in  a 
muddleheaded  way  (calling  on  them  to  declare 
for  squarsonry,  the  chapel,  Mrs.  Eddy,  Sir  Oliver 
Lodge,  or  the  Ingersoll  Free  Thought  Platform) 
— have  doubted  them.  Religion  exists,  and  has 
existed  since  the  dawn  of  human  intelligence.  It 
does  not  persist,  save  in  the  process  of  evolution. 
You  cannot  limit  evolution.  Either  all  evolves  or 
nothing.  It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  the  Young 
are  under  the  impression  that  they  have  thrown 
religion  overboard.  That,  I  need  hardly  say,  I  do 
not  think  they  can  do.  Stirnerism  itself  is  a  creed 
— a  poor,  narrow,  vinegary  sort  of  creed  in  my 
opinion,  nevertheless  a  creed.  But  they  may  pro- 
fess they  have  thrown  religion  overboard.  If  so, 
I  shall  be  altogether  amazed  and  confounded,  since 
I  hazard  we  are  not  present  at  the  death  of  many 
old  religions  but  at  the  birth  of  one  more  new,  or, 
as  usual,  of  an  old  one — perhaps  in  the  deepest 
deep  of  the  only  one — in  a  new  body.  To  me  re- 
ligion represents  a  force  working  in  life,  the  prod- 
uct of  evolution  and  necessary  to  its  continuance,  a 
force  that  carries  and  propagates  a  knowledge  that 
is  scarcely  translatable  in  present  terms  of  the 
rational,  something  akin  to  an  instinct,  perhaps  the 
consciousness  of  the  direction  of  the  evolutional 
stream  itself,  a  consciousness  which  is  most  often 
(as  possibly  at  present)  associated  with  those 
forces  in  evolution  that  make,  in  principle,  for 
unity,  mutual  aid,  and  even  renunciation,  rather 
than  for  conflict:  forasmuch  as  religion,  on  the 
xxxviii 


PREFA  CE 

whole,  would  seem  to  tend  toward  an  effort  at 
coagulation,  the  strifes  it  has  engendered  between 
peoples  or  between  individuals  and  the  herd  being 
rather  occasioned  by  conflicts  of  would-be  unifying 
forces  than  of  purely  disintegration-seeking  forces. 
Alas!  I  am  not  a  philosopher,  and  have  had  no 
philosophic  or  even  scientific  training.  I  find 
definition  of  this  sort  excessively  difficult.  Perhaps 
a  sympathetic  and  quicker  brain  than  mine  will 
perceive  what  I  am  straining  at  and  express  it — if 
it  has  not  been  expressed:  and  I  have  nowhere 
yet  seen  it  expressed — in  a  manner  of  which  I  am 
not  at  present  capable.  Claud  Bragdon  is  quoted 
as  asserting  in  his  Fourth  Dimensional  Vistas,  a 
book  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  procure  and  the 
value  of  which  I  have  no  means  of  ascertaining, 
that  "  there  is  more  and  more  evident  an  increas- 
ing pressure  upon  consciousness  from  a  new 
direction."  This  increasing  pressure  may  be  what 
we  know  as  religion,  for  I  take  it  that  this  Fourth 
Dimension  cannot  be  outside  the  evolutional 
stream.  To  me,  at  least,  there  was  perceptible  a 
sort  of  reaching  out,  very  difficult  to  define,  in  the 
minds  of  those  a  little  while  ago  about  me  toward 
something  which  for  want  of  a  better  name  I  will 
call  a  religion.  And  here  in  Japan,  when  I  ques- 
tioned one  of  America's  greatest  religious  leaders, 
two  facts  especially  struck  me  in  his  conversation 
— the  first  was  that  his  views,  when  he  was  not  in 
the  presence  of  "  weaker  brethren,"  were  almost 
identical  with  those  of  William  James,  only  that 
he  had  obviously  undergone  some  religious 

xxxix 


GU  I  LTY     SOULS 

illumination  such  as  James  did  not  experience; 
the  second  a  matter  of  some  curiosity,  namely,  his 
assertion  that  at  Harvard  last  year  he  had  come 
into  contact  with  a  group  of  young  men  who  were 
seeking  religion,  as  it  were,  by  empirical  methods. 
This  last  fact  touched  me  close. 

And  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  the  writing 
of  a  particular  play? 

It  has  this  to  do — that  herein  are  treated  the 
spiritual  experiences  of  one  of  this  generation. 
For  had  I  not  suffered  particular  experiences  this 
play  had  not  been  written.  It  is  the  peculiarity  of 
these  experiences  and  the  extraordinary  validity 
that,  for  me  at  least,  attaches  to  the  conclusions 
that  then  came  to  consciousness  and  the  general 
result  to  which  they  lead  that  prompts  me  to 
suppose  that  this  work  of  art,  such  as  it  is,  may 
possess  an  interest  other  than  aesthetic  to  my  con- 
temporaries. On  that  possible  interest  I  do  not 
wish  the  play  to  be  judged.  The  play  should  be 
judged  sheerly  as  a  work  of  art.  And  yet  some 
considerations  of  the  theme  and  its  relation  to  a 
supposed  irreligious  generation  may  not  be  out 
of  place.  As  an  aid  to  such  a  consideration,  in 
case  the  play  (after  it  has  been  judged  as  a  work 
of  art)  should  arouse  the  interest  a  document 
possesses,  I  purpose  to  record  some  of  the  motives 
which  preceded  the  perception  of  the  theme  as  the 
germ  of  a  work  of  art.  The  interest  for  me  exists 
in  the  sudden  appreciation  of  the  fact  that,  as  far 
as  I  am  concerned,  religion  in  its  (as  far  as  I  have 
been  able  to  gather  by  comparison)  most  profound, 
xl 


PREFA  CE 

or  at  any  rate  most  obscure,  form  is  so  far  from 
being  in  any  sense  dead  that  it  may  be  said,  for 
one  at  least,  to  possess  a  peculiar,  a  positively 
eruptional  "  liveliness."  Considering  the  play, 
then,  for  the  purpose  of  this  part  of  the  preface 
only  as  a  document,  I  propose  to  record  what  in  a 
moment  I  shall  record  to  the  end — that  others, 
provided  with  the  appropriate  data,  may  take  what 
line  they  choose  in  the  matter,  either  declaring  me 
outside  their  number  or  most  definitely  of  it. 

Why,  oh,  why  be  so  Painfully  Indiscreet? 
First,  however,  let  it  be  understood  that  I  put 
forward  this  record  of  experience  with  no  desire 
to  draw  attention  to  myself.  My  aim  is  to  draw 
attention  to  my  generation  and  to  draw  my  genera- 
tion's attention  to  a  matter  which,  I  consider, 
it  has  peradventure  somewhat  prematurely  dis- 
missed or  would  seem  to  have  dismissed. 
For  it  appears  to  me  that,  so  far  from 
religion  being  dismissed,  the  Young  have  not  even 
properly  investigated  (that  is,  in  the  case  of 
religions,  to  investigate  through  personal  ex- 
perience) the  religion  which,  in  the  West,  lies 
nearest  to  hand:  Christianity.  I  do  not  record 
what  I  record  to  prove  that  I  am  better  or  worse 
or  deeper  than  anybody  else,  young  or  old.  The 
record  forms  merely,  as  it  were,  notes  to  a  docu- 
ment in  the  event  of  the  play  coming  to  be  con- 
sidered, apart  from  its  intrinsic  value  as  a  work 
of  art. 

The  autobiography  of  the  Young  is  often  of 

xli 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

interest,  but  almost  invariably  of  a  certain  tire- 
someness. I  shall  therefore  be  brief.  I  ask  the 
reader  to  bear  in  mind  that  the  purpose  of  the 
record  is  as  above,  and  is  not  intended  as  an 
indulgence  in  egoism  on  my  part.  It  is  because 
I  am  by  way  of  working  that  we  may  get  beyond 
our  present  egos  that  I  record  it. 

Uncalled-for  Autobiography  of  an  Unlicked  Pup 
At  twelve  years  old  I  had  a  bout  of  religiosity — 
one  could  not  style  it  religion.  I  considered  my- 
self lonely  in  the  world,  and  Jesus  Christ,  who  was 
of  a  somewhat  tearful  disposition,  as  my  par- 
ticular friend.  In  order  to  realize  his  pains  more 
acutely  I  remember  lying  awake  as  long  as  I  could 
with  my  arms  outstretched  and  inserted  in  the 
iron  girders  of  the  bed  until  sleep  supervened. 
This  I  remember  as  the  crisis  of  that  phase,  a 
phase  which  ended  abruptly  when  the  headmaster 
was  changed  and  one  less  kindly,  less  compre- 
hending, and  less,  in  the  simplest  and  deepest 
sense,  Christian  took  his  place.  I  remember  no 
more  religious  or  pseudo-religious  emotions  until 
at  a  Public  School  the  day  of  Confirmation 
approached.  Then  I  recollect  undertaking  a 
pretty  comprehensive — an  only  too  compre- 
hensive— scheme  of  religion.  I  set  about  con- 
fessing my  misdemeanours  on  the  understanding 
that  no  action  would  be  taken.  No  action  was 
taken,  and  the  headmaster  was  sympathetic.  He 
asked  me  what  I  cared  about  in  lifej  I  promptly 
replied,  "  poetry."  Thereupon  he  recited  "  Shall 
xlii 


PREFA  CE 

I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day?  "  So  beauti- 
fully did  he  recite  it,  and  so  overwhelmed  was  I 
at  finding  one  who  understood  poetry  in  the  sense 
that  I  understood  it,  over  whose  grave,  benign 
face  there  ran  no  shadow  of  a  smile  at  my  enthu- 
siasm, that  I  burst  into  tears,  and  I  verily  believe 
that  in  that  moment  I  might  have  been  converted 
to  any  creed  whatsoever  the  good  man  had  cared 
to  propose  had  he  understood  how  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  situation.  To  this  day  I  cannot 
think  of  him  without  devotion.  But  when  I 
returned  to  my  House  it  was  not  long  before 
I  perceived,  having  bared  my  breast  of  its  poor 
misdemeanours  to  my  Housemaster  as  I  felt 
bound  to  do,  being  by  way  of  getting  "  square  " 
as  I  called  it  on  all  points  with  life,  that  I  was 
under  surveillance.  To-day  I  am  persuaded  that 
the  surveillance  was  perhaps  the  master's  duty, 
for  I  was  then  extraordinarily  restless  and  pos- 
sessed of  such  a  violent  passion  of  hate  for  my 
school  as  I  have  since  never  experienced  for  any 
institution  or  person ;  and  it  is  not  altogether  im- 
possible that  this  restlessness  and  abomination  of 
nearly  everything  accounted  sacred  in  my  House 
might  have  proved  catching.  For  I  was  an  astute 
little  beast  with  my  tongue.  Confirmation  Day 
came — a  farce.  First  Communion  came — another 
farce.  On  the  evening  of  that  Sunday  I  tore  my 
white  tie  off  and  shred  it  viciously  with  scissors 
and  swore  undying  hate  to  all  that  I  took  it  to 
represent.  I  was  a  humourless  pup.  Should  I 
not  have  known  that  spiritual  enlightenment  is 

xliii 


GUILTY     SOULS 

not  a  proper  part  of  the  education  of  English 
gentlemen,  of  those  youths  who  are  destined,  par- 
ticularly destined  in  my  school,  to  become  the 
consuls  and  pro-consuls  of  the  widest  and  most 
varied  empire,  having  beneath  its  control  heaven 
knows  how  many  creeds,  the  world  has  ever  seen? 
Alas,  for  the  English  Public  School!  I  learned 
a  highly  irregular  lesson  of  that  institution: 
namely,  that  one  has  a  right  to  one's  own  soul, 
and  that  not  the  devil  himself  can  annex  that  right. 

Nearly  two  years  of  defiance  followed,  then 
I  tired  .  .  .  and  considered  I  would  give  religion 
another  chance.  I  went  to  Communion.  One  day 
a  young  Jew  asserted  to  my  face  that  I  went 
because  certain  handsome  girls  knelt  beside  me 
at  the  rails.  I  knocked  him  down.  But  afterwards 
I  recalled  the  beating  of  my  heart  as  I  approached 
the  altar  and  the  fact  that  I  certainly  did  feel  more 
changed  in  heart,  crammer's  dull  scamp  that  I  was, 
when  particular  girls  were  present.  From  that  day 
to  this  I  have  never  partaken  of  the  Sacrament. 
Misery  and  revolt  descended  again.  For,  if  I  have 
learned  nothing  else  in  my  twenty-eight  years, 
I  have  learned  that  one  can  be  more  miserable 
before  one  is  twenty  than  those  of  over  twenty 
can  very  well  understand.  Later  sorrows  and 
pains  may  be  deeper  and  more  desolating:  none 
are  so  acute  and  so  forlorn. 

Then  one  summer  morning  while  we  were  look- 
ing at  the  serene  sea  an  acquaintance  remarked, 
"How  perfect  it  is!     It's  good  to  be  alive  this 
morning!  " 
xliv 


PREFA  CE 

I  had  never,  inelastic,  blind,  goblin-ridden 
creature,  thought  of  things  after  that  fashion. 
In  five  minutes  I  was  on  the  way  to  a  change.  I 
felt  a  sort  of  joy  I  had  never  known — an  essen- 
tially for  me  religious,  a  holy  joy.  I  loved  and 
forgave  everybody.  The  world  seemed  perfect. 
The  mood  endured.  I  must  have  been  then  just 
seventeen. 

But  it  was  mere  innocent  enjoyment  of  health. 
There  was  no  idea  in  it,  no  conscious  delight  in 
things  or  cultivation  of  delight.  Delight  simply 
was.  I  didn't  seek  to  be  "  good  "  or  to  be  "  bad." 
All  that  was  lovely  surrounded  me  like  the  waves 
of  a  song  floating,  on  a  still,  happy,  and  sunny 
morning,  from  a  further  room.  I  neither  courted 
nor  repulsed  the  loveliness,  and  it  had  no  effect  on 
my  conduct,  which  somehow  continued  overcast 
and  disorganized  by  what  appeared  to  me  the 
inexplicable  requirements  of  my  elders  and  my 
circumstances.  For  instance,  I  wished  to  be  what 
they  would  call  "  lazy."  I  hated  learning  Latin 
and  Greek.  I  didn't  dispute  their  right  to  try  and 
make  me  do  so — only  these  preoccupations  of 
theirs  didn't  seem  to  me  to  have  any  bearing  on 
the  essential  me.  All  that  was  outside  what  I 
somehow  dimly  felt  to  be  essential,  and  what 
seemed  essential  was  to  be  as  I  was — possessed 
of  a  sort  of  profound  and  holy  happiness.  The 
devils  only  appeared,  and  I  only  gave  way  to  them 
when  I  was  required  to  be  "  good  "  after  others' 
fashion,  not  after  my  own.  A  year  later  I  dis- 
covered music,  and  after  music  the  drama,  and  on 

xlv 


GUILTY     SOULS 

top  of  both  I  read  Richard  Jefferies'  Story  of  my 
Heart.  In  one  day  I  seemed  to  spring  up  complete 
from  top  to  toe.  Everything  that  Jefferies  put 
forward  in  this  book,  which  I  still  consider  pro- 
found and  beautiful  and  necessary  reading  for 
every  growing  girl  or  boy,  seemed  to  me  the  very 
truth  of  truth.  No  book,  save  one,  ever  made  such 
a  deep  impression  on  me  as  this. 

I  was  eighteen  when  I  read  Richard  Jefferies. 
I  turned,  if  I  may  put  so  bold  and  ambitious  a 
name  upon  it,  consciously  pagan  in  a  day.  Day 
and  night  during  the  time  that  I  was  ceasing  to  be 
a  boy,  day  and  night  when  I  found  myself  and 
became  a  youth,  day  and  night  to  the  very  brink 
of  the  war,  the  ideas  of  Richard  Jefferies  were  my 
ideas.  During  those  three  years  I  lived  a  prodi- 
gious life:  indeed,  I  may  say  that  I  had  had  no 
sense  of  real  personality  until  that  period,  and  that 
I  regard  the  self  I  then  discovered  as  basically 
my  essential  self.  My  life  became  a  miracle  to 
me.  By  day  I  discovered  the  world,  colour,  light, 
the  wind,  the  freshening  of  the  waves,  intoxication 
of  the  senses  and  of  the  soul;  by  night,  reading 
into  forbidden  hours,  the  spirit  and  mind  of  man 
disclosed  themselves  to  me  in  an  extraordinary 
hotch-potch  of  books  that  ranged  from  W.  B. 
Maxwell  to  Flaubert.  Especially  I  cultivated  all 
that  was  considered  "  gloomy  "  and  "  morbid." 
I  had  a  taste  for  the  bitter — the  sign  in  the  young 
of  a  healthy  soul.  "  For  if  this  is  the  truth,"  I  said, 
"  let  me  have  it.  My  religion  is  to  experience  all 
— very  well,  then,  let  me  have  the  worst,  so  that 
xlvi 


PREFA  CE 

I    do   not   deceive    myself   with   artificial   para- 
dises! " 

This  desire  to  experience,  to  know  and  to  be, 
was  definitely  religious.  It  affected  my  conduct. 
For  the  advocacy  of  ideas  (somewhat  crudely 
apprehended)  in  season  and  out  of  season  with  its 
attendant  humiliations  (just  and  unjust)  and  the 
moods  of  spiritual  plenty  and  spiritual  dryness 
attendant  on  living  up  to  such  a  creed  of  truth- 
seeking  and  truth-propagation  can  definitely  be 
termed,  I  think,  a  phase  of  religious  life.  As  for 
any  sort  of  orthodox  religion,  more  particularly 
of  any  sort  of  Christianity,  I  regarded  myself  as 
outside  it.  It  simply  didn't  exist  for  me.  I  wasn't 
even — save  when  irritated  by  the  actual  physical 
presence  of  the  orthodox — a  rare  occurrence — the 
enemy  of  it.  It  was  altogether  abolished,  and  I 
stood  up  real  and  whole  and  myself  at  last.  No 
sort  of  malady  of  the  soul  could  touch  me:  often 
tired,  dispirited,  even  despairing,  as  I  was,  I  was 
never  sick.  On  the  evening  of  my  twenty-first 
birthday  I  finally  decided,  privately  persuaded  that 
I  would  certainly  be  killed,  to  join  the  army. 
Under  my  pillow  that  night  lay  the  book  I  had 
carried  always  with  me  for  more  than  two  years 
ere  war  broke  out — Servitudes  et  Grandeurs 
Militaires  of  Alfred  de  Vigny.  Paganism,  ceasing 
to  be  self-indulgent  (if  self -educational),  became 
extraordinarily  intensified.  I  perceived  a  chance  to 
exercise  pagan  virtues  in  the  position  of  a  soldier — 
a  mercenary  who,  suffering  and  dying,  remains  a 
non-political  individual  granted  the  opportunity  of 

xlvii 


GUILTY     SOULS 

making  something  of  his  soul  through  fortitude 
and  silence.  That  year  of  training  is  the  happiest 
I  have  so  far  experienced.  I  had  everything  (save 
one)  the  heart  could  possibly  desire — the  sky  over 
me,  beautiful  horses,  loyal  companions  in  the  men, 
an  officer  whom  I  intensely  admired  as  my  major, 
a  definite  and,  in  its  way,  noble  creed — for  I  never 
thought  of  killing:  if  ever  I  thought  of  the  future 
I  was  merely  certain  that  I  should  be  killed.  And, 
except  for  the  grief  it  would  occasion  my  kin  and 
the  grief  I  felt  at  passing  from  them  and  the  old 
house  in  which  I  had  been  brought  up,  I  didn't 
really  much  care.  Such  a  torrent  of  life  possessed 
me  as  I  had  never  known:  "Bliss  was  it  in  that 
dawn  to  be  alive,  but  to  be  young  was  very 
Heaven!  " 

And  in  all  this  there  was  a  glorious  sense  of 
religion  entirely  unlike  any  of  the  dim,  confused 
memories  of  a  soul  once  sick,  of  something  called 
"  sin,"  of  "  repentance,"  of  any  possible  need  of 
that  which  saves.  "  That  which  saves?  r  What 
saves?  A  clean  sword  and  a  clean  heart.  So  on 
an  officer's  ride,  cantering  into  a  coppice  (thus  do 
I  recall  the  doings  of  that  romantic,  absurd,  and 
yet  somewhat  enviable  youth),  I  halted,  drew  my 
tailor's  tinsmith  weapon  in  an  aisle  where  none 
could  spy,  lifted  it  flashing  toward  the  sunbeam, 
cried  "  Ich  Dien!  "  and  brought  it  to  my  lips.  I 
wonder  if  I  shall  ever  be  as  happy  again.  Every 
age  has,  of  course,  the  happiness  appropriate  to  it. 
But,  ah,  just  to  be  such  a  triumphant  and  high- 
hearted fool  once  again! 
xlviii 


PREFA  CE 

And  I  went  to  the  war.  It  didn't  take  long  to 
finish  me.  As  I  stood  on  a  hop-clad  hill  outside  a 
Rest  Station  before  I  was  invalided  to  England 
I  suddenly  became  aware  of  a  world  fallen  lop- 
sided, of  men  suffering  and  making  others  suffer. 
I  had  not  thought  of  that.  I  had  pictured  horror 
for  myself,  but  not  for  others.  The  vision 
vanished  as  soon  as  I  became  sensible  of  it.  My 
eye  turned  inward  once  more.  I  lived  again  and 
again  the  overpowering,  exultant  sensation  that 
had  visited  me  when  inwardly  compelled  to  observe 
our  fire  on  the  German  line  in  a  manner  exposing 
me  more  than  was  necessary  or  even  sane.  As  in  a 
reeling  dream  I  experienced  once  more  the  fierce 
if  only  temporary  conviction  that  the  essential 
"  I  "  was  immortal,  that  a  bullet  might  split  my 
head  but  could  not  expugn  my  spirit  from  Life, 
that  I  was  due  to  go  on  experiencing  in  ever  widen- 
ing circles  through  eternal  aeons.  Then  I  com- 
pletely broke  down  and  was  sent  home. 

There  I  encountered  serious  trouble.  But  my 
eye  was  still  bent  inward.  No  one  seemed  to  exist 
except  myself.  I  continued  a  pagan,  if  a  less 
riotous  and  more  grimly  determined  pagan.  As 
for  Christianity,  there  was  a  demand  for  man  to 
endure  for  others.  Well,  paganism  had  its  heroes 
too.  Passivity  I  abhorred.  You  fight  and,  if 
necessary,  die  for  what  you  believe  in:  that  is  not 
an  exclusively  Christian  tenet.  Anti-Christ  also 
bears  our  cross.  I  didn't  hate  the  Germans.  They 
thought  a  civilization  could  be  imposed.  We,  the 
older  peoples,  considered  it  could  only  be  induced. 

xlix 


GUI LTY     SOU  LS 

We  were  fighting  for  toleration,  and  in  that  sense 
were  fighting  and  dying  for  man,  and  in  that  sense 
could  be  called  Christians.  (This  last  idea  I 
endeavoured  to  enshrine  in  a  poem  called  Battery 
Moving  Up  from  Rest  Camp.)  But  in  any  other 
sense  I  was  not  Christian.  I  continued,  while  dis- 
satisfied with  myself,  satisfied  with  my  mode  of 
treating  life  and  of  expanding  myself.  It  never 
even  struck  me  that  it  is  possible  to  damage  others 
by  living  up  to  such  a  creed,  nor  that,  as  a  friend 
later  pointed  out  to  me,  one  can't  be  and  have 
everything,  that  certain  modes  of  life  are 
mutually  exclusive  in  that  a  man  who  has  been 
an  Antony  cannot  become  an  Aucassin — that, 
in  short,  the  past  as  it  affects  the  personality  is 
to  some  extent  immutable,  and  of  all  things  a 
habit  of  selfishness  most  immutable.  For  I 
had  at  that  time  no  consideration  whatever  for 
others. 

And  then,  suddenly,  without  any  kind  of  warn- 
ing, it  happened:  something  that  the  griefs 
and  joys  I  have  tried  to  record  in  Ardours  and 
Endurances  had  not  effected,  something  that  was 
not  due  to  the  death  of  any  friend  or  to  any  par- 
ticular violent  affection.  I  connect  with  it  only 
one  fact — that  for  a  long  time  my  feeling  for 
Nature  had  been  on  the  wane,  since  I  seemed 
unable  to  return  to  an  enjoyment  of  her  aloof 
from  men,  whom  I  perceived  to  be  tearing  to 
pieces  each  other  in  a  necessary  or  unnecessary 
battle. 

It  happened  in  the  train,  while  travelling  down 


PREFA  CE 

to  stay  at  a  house  on  the  river.  At  the  bookstall 
at  Paddington  I  had  bought  a  copy  of  the  Con- 
fessions of  Saint  Augustine,  induced  so  to  do  solely 
by  the  fact  that  Edward  Pusey,  who  had  based 
this  translation  of  his  on  a  version  of  Watts,  was 
related  to  my  mother's  family.  I  well  remember 
holding  the  book  with  some  misgiving,  wondering 
if  it  contained  anything  that  could  possibly  appeal 
to  me.  Arthur  Symons  had  written  about  it, 
hadn't  he?  But  that  was  in  a  volume  of  Symons 
which  I  did  not  possess.  Arthur  Symons  wouldn't 
waste  that  marvellous  gustatory  faculty  of  his  on 
rubbish,  to  be  sure.  That  he  should  care  to 
appraise  this  man's  work  was  probably  proof 
that  I  should  find  something  of  interest  to  me 
in  it. 

We  had  drawn  out  of  the  immediate  suburbs, 
and  I  had  been  alone  some  ten  minutes  in  my 
compartment,  when  I  commenced  to  turn  the 
leaves,  finally  smoothed  the  page  and  began,  by 
what  chance  or  miracle  I  know  not,  precisely  at 
this  passage,  which  is  the  twenty-seventh  chapter 
of  the  tenth  book: 

Too  late  loved  I  Thee,  O  Thou  Beauty  of  ancient  days,  yet 
ever  new!  too  late  loved  I  Thee!  And,  behold,  Thou  wert 
within,  and  I  abroad,  and  there  I  searched  for  Theej  deformed 
I,  plunging  amid  those  fair  forms,  which  Thou  hast  made.  Thou 
wert  with  me,  but  I  was  not  with  Thee.  Things  held  me 
far  from  Thee,  which,  unless  they  were  in  Thee,  were  not  at 
all.  Thou  calledst  and  shoutedst  and  burstest  my  deafness. 
Thou  flashedst,  shonest,  and  scatteredst  my  blindness.  Thou 
breathedst  odours,  and  I  drew  in  my  breath  and  did  pant 
for  Thee.  I  tasted  and  do  hunger  and  thirst  for  Thee.  Thou 
didst  touch  me  and  I  burned  for  Thy  peace.  .  .  . 

li 


GU  I  LT  Y     SOULS 

The  empty  carriage  spun  before  my  eyes.  A 
terrible  void,  wherein  fluttered  a  joy  so  intense  and 
precarious  that  I  feared  it  would  vanish  even  as  I 
felt  it,  seemed  to  open  in  my  breast.  My  senses 
ached  and  my  head  grew  dizzy.  I  read  on: 

Because  I  am  not  full  of  Thee  I  am  a  burden  to  myself  .  .  . 
Woe  is  me !  Lord  have  pity  on  me  .  .  .  Thou  art  the  Physician, 
I  the  sick;  Thou  merciful,  I  miserable  .  .  .  All  my  hope  is  no- 
where but  in  Thy  exceeding  great  mercy.  Give  what  Thou 
enjoinest  and  enjoin  what  Thou  wilt. 

I  became  aware  of  the  most  frightful  possible 
consequences,  of  demands  to  be  made  of  me  which 
I  could  never  fulfil  and  from  which  I  could  not 
retire,  of  an  unmerciful  something  bent  on  break- 
ing my  heart.  The  very  floor  of  the  carriage 
seemed  to  open  under  my  feet  and  I  became 
sensible  of  myself  as  leaning  over  the  mouth  of 
hell,  as  over  a  smooth  black  chute  down  which  we 
slide  in  the  sarcophagus  of  the  blind  body;  and, 
lifting  up  my  eyes  with  an  immense  effort,  for  it 
was  as  if  the  weight  of  a  huge  hand  were  laid  on 
my  head,  I  felt  an  all  but  inaccessible  heaven  open- 
ing above  me.  With  a  miraculous  certitude,  which 
has  since  left  me  but  at  stray  moments,  I  perceived 
that  in  ourselves  we  are  saved,  that  only  ourselves 
can  save  ourselves,  that  we  are  our  own  seducers, 
judges,  and  executioners,  and  that  in  the  most 
literal  sense  "  Now  is  the  hour  of  salvation."  And 
though  I  feared  I  hardly  knew  what,  though  I 
understood  that  everything  I  thought  I  believed 
in  must  perish,  that  I  must  give  up  every  in- 
lii 


PREFA  CE 

dulgence  and,  what  was  worse,  every  love,  and 
what  was  worst  of  all,  the  hope  of  a  human  love, 
of  a  woman's  love  somehow  and  somewhere  to 
come  were  I  so  bidden  and  thus  suffer  my  heart 
to  be  broken,  yet  I  called  out  "Break  it  now! 
Break  it  now!  "  For  I  feared  the  moment  would 
pass.  Nothing  happened,  save  that  my  senses 
veered  and  spun  with  exactly  the  same  sickening 
sensation,  only  apparently  in  darkness,  as  do  the 
senses  of  a  novice  in  an  aeroplane  when  it  banks 
for  the  first  time.  In  desperation  I  read  on  till 
I  came  to  "  too  little  doth  he  love  Thee  who  loves 
anything  with  Thee  which  he  loveth  not  for 
Thee!  " 

Then  my  ears  rang,  a  gigantic  flood  seemed  to 
gather  to  my  head,  and  the  floor  was  like  a  wave 
crested  with  light.  It  began  in  my  breast,  it 
rushed  into  my  head,  I  felt  it  in  my  hands  and 
down  to  my  very  feet.  I  was  taken  with  a  ver- 
tigo. I  remember  the  book  falling.  I  remember 
kneeling.  I  remember  the  train  rocking.  When 
I  recovered  from  this  depth  and  confusion,  which 
was  followed  by  a  sort  of  white  obliteration  j 
when  it,  whatever  it  was,  had  had  its  way  with  me 
and  settled  into  every  niche  of  my  being,  I  re- 
member I  found  myself  sitting  in  the  corner 
feeling  exceedingly  weak  and  overwhelmingly 
tired  but  happy  in  a  humble  sort  of  way.  Beads  of 
rain  brightened  the  window — we  were  nearing 
the  Thames — and  tears  came  into  my  eyes  because 
they  were  so  beautiful  and  I  so  happy.  From  that 
day  something  was  changed  in  me.  I  have  never 

liii 


GUILTY     SOULS 

been  quite  the  same  since.  But  I  am  not  Christian, 
save  in  the  most  general  sense.  Awhile  I  dabbled 
in  Christianity,  since  I  was  brought  to  the  con- 
clusion that  my  generation  had  dismissed  it  in  far 
too  summary  a  fashion:  for  which  the  churches 
and  the  conventions  are  largely  to  blame.  I  per- 
ceived that  religion  is  a  personal  thing,  and  that 
it  cannot  be  judged  entirely  objectively  if  it  is  to 
be  understood.  And  so  I  settled  down  to  try 
and  induce  it  to  work.  This  was  a  great  struggle. 
It  meant  the  surrender  of  pride  and  the  surrender 
of  reason.  I  took  to  reading  regular  prayers,  to 
bodily  penalties  and  mental  mortifications.  I  read 
incessantly  in  Job,  St.  Augustine,  Thomas  a 
Kempis,  St.  Francis,  Pascal,  and  .  .  .  after  a 
while,  in  Tolstoy.  I  do  not  know  if  I  ever  suc- 
ceeded in  making  any  real  abnegation  of  my  rea- 
son, or  even  of  my  pride.  I  think  probably  not.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  this  revelation,  if  such  I 
dared  term  it,  though  occasioned  by  reading  in  a 
Christian  book  need  not  be  considered  of  necessity 
exclusively  Christian  in  substance.  The  passivity 
of  Christianity,  the  taint  of  the  fakir  was  what  I 
abhorred.  And  there  seemed  to  be  for  me — how 
shall  I  express  it? — a  kind  of  selfishness,  a  queer 
preoccupation  about  some  of  these  Christians: 
"  O  how  great  a  confidence  shall  we  have  at  the 
hour  of  death,  whom  no  affection  to  anything 
detaineth  in  the  world  ...  he  that  desireth  to 
walk  freely  with  Me,  it  is  necessary  that  he 
mortify  all  his  corrupt  and  inordinate  affections, 
and  that  he  should  not  earnestly  cleave  to  any 
liv 


PREFACE 

creature  with  particular  love!  "  Thus  spake 
Thomas  a  Kempis  in  the  fifty-third  chapter  of  his 
Third  Book.  I  found  it  a  cruel  saying.  More- 
over, the  supposed  antagonism  of  flesh  and  spirit 
was  more  than  I  could  swallow.  I  had  but  to  think 
of  Richard  Jefferies,  Walt  Whitman,  and  George 
Meredith,  not  to  speak  of  Titian  and  Phidias, 
abruptly  to  conclude  that  in  the  severer  forms  of 
Christianity  a  kind  of  barbarism  revealed  itself: 
the  perversion  of  the  cenobite  or  the  mujik.  And, 
in  any  event,  what  were  they  doing?  "  Laying  up 
treasures  in  Heaven" — ultimate  salvation  gleamed 
like  a  schoolchild's  picnic  party  at  the  end  of  the 
vista.  The  idea  of  the  Resurrection  had  always 
seemed  to  me  ridiculous.  It  seems  so  now.  It 
seemed  so  then;  the  more  so  since  the  "  revela- 
tion "  had  insisted  that  we  are  saved  or  lost  now, 
and  that  in  consciousness  of  the  moment's  choice 
taken,  of  the  irretrievable  ruin  or  joy  that  we 
establish  for  ourselves  minute  by  minute,  lies  our 
heaven  or  hell.  Surely  living  up  to  the  idea  from 
minute  to  minute  was  what  counted! — to-morrow 
is  not  our  affair,  and  not  God  Himself  can  over- 
throw integrity.  And  what  was  God  in  any  event? 
Certainly  not  a  Trinity  who  dealt  rewards  or 
punishments:  for  we  ourselves  do  that  through 
the  instrument  of  a  consciousness  that  from  mo- 
ment to  moment  declares  our  slavery  in  self  or 
our  freedom  in  idea,  which  can  never  be  satisfied, 
and  regards  spiritual  satisfaction  as  spiritual,  men- 
tal, and  moral  death.  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  cenobite  and  the  fakir  were  altogether 

Iv 


GU  I  LTY     SOULS 

too  much  set  on  saving  their  souls:  not  the  saving 
mattered,  but  the  process  of  saving.  And,  as  so 
often  before,  the  words  of  Goethe  translated  by 
Charles  Sorley  thunderously  smote  the  conscious- 
ness and  diffused  that,  for  me,  one  only  and  un- 
dying truth  I  have  discovered  in  my  life  and  by 
which  I  have  come  to  live 

Yea,  in  this  thought  lies  my  whole  life's  persistence, 

This  is  the  sum  total  of  the  true; 

He  only  earns  his  Freedom,  owns  Existence 

Who  every  day  must  conquer  them  anew!  1 

Like  the  dancing  dervish,  we  proceed  forward  by 
circles.  Even  thus,  though  dimly,  had  Richard 
Jefferies  for  all  his  nihilism  spoken.  Even  thus 
did  Shelley  speak  now: 

To  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks  infinite; 
To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or  night  j 

To  defy  Power  which  seems  omnipotent} 
To  love  and  bear;  to  hope  till  Hope  creates 
From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contemplates  j 

Neither  to  change,  to  falter,  nor  repent 
This,  like  thy  glory  Titan,  is  to  be 

Good,  great,  and  joyous,  beautiful  and  free; 
This  is  alone  Life,  Joy,  Empire,  and  Victory. 

And  of  whom,  in  the  sublimest  lyric  words  that 
were  ever  phrased  in  the  English  tongue,  was  that 

1  Ja!     Die  sent  sinne  bin  ich  ganz  ergeben, 
Dast  ist  der  Weis/ieit  letzter  schluss: 
Nur  der  verdient  sic/i  Freiheit  <wie  das  Leben, 
Der  taglich  sie  erobern  muss. 

Faust,  Part  II:  Act  V, —  Goethe. 

Ivi 


PREFACE 

voice  singing?  Of  Prometheus.  Prometheus 
became  the  symbol  of  my  god  and  has  remained 
the  symbol  of  my  god.  But  the  word  god  is  mis- 
leading. It  has  a  taint  of  the  fetish  and  of  non- 
sense words  such  as  the  Absolute.  What  concerned 
me? — to  serve  the  Promethean  in  life.  Did  my 
own  soul  need  final  salvation?  Suffice  that  it 
needed  to  experience  the  sense  of  "  that  which 
saves  "  now — that  is,  in  every  minute  of  waking 
existence  between  this  hour  and  the  grave.  Had 
this  idea  anything  of  "  that  which  saves  "  ?  It 
had.  Was  I  to  consider  the  final  totting  up  at  all, 
or  what  the  scheme  of  all  things  might  signify 
with  regard  to  my  personal  destiny  hereafter? 
No:  I  was  to  serve  the  idea.  In  service  during 
the  successive  minutes  is  salvation.  But  what  form 
of  service?  What  were  other  men  and  women 
doing?  I  did  not  know.  What  were  other  men 
and  women?  I  did  not  know.  I  had  not  even 
been  interested  in  them  save  as  they  ministered  to 
the  expansion  of  my  soul.  They  had  been  some- 
thing with  which  you  explored  your  own  per- 
sonality, which  you  used  or  exploited  to  satisfy 
your  own  needs  and  greeds.  I  had  thought  I  was 
a  man,  as  Prometheus  was  Man,  and  behold  I  was 
a  mere  little  monster!  But  to  be  "  interested  "  in 
man — what  a  coldblooded  proceeding!  To  un- 
derstand him,  it  was  said,  you  must  first  love  him. 
The  world  darkened.  "  Nature  "  had  long  ceased 
to  be  my  paradise.  For  there  is  as  much  nature 
inside  a  house  as  outside  it.  You  cannot  divide 
Nature  into  trees  which  are  spirits,  such  dryads 

Ivii 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

as  are  the  symbols  of  the  Earth-God,  and  into 
tables,  chairs,  and  footstools,  which  are  but  mere 
blocks  of  wood.  Wordsworth,  the  mystic  of 
"  Nature,"  was  become  a  sentimental  driveller, 
the  more  so  since  any  crowded  wood  provided  the 
wanderer  with  the  spectacle  of  an  intense  silent 
and  terrible  combat  to  the  death  for  light  and  air, 
while  the  true  Wordsworth,  the  heroic  friend  of 
man,  though  he  sympathized  with  man,  seemed  to 
remain  curiously  remote  in  his  fastness  from  the 
actual  stench,  loud  badinage,  and  elbow-jolting 
of  the  crowd.  Wordsworth,  then,  loved  man,  but 
seemed  to  love  him  on  a  small  but  sufficient  in- 
come and  from  a  distance.  The  word  Humanity 
rose  like  the  lucid  and  entirely  vacuous  exhalation 
of  the  minds  of  tiresome,  completely  inhuman 
humans.  Humanity? — a  sociologist's  dream,  be- 
gotten of  soda-water  and  a  vegetable  diet  after  a 
glorious  day  among  the  statistics.  But  Shel- 
ley .  .  .  .  ?  And  so  I  stood  in  the  desert  of  a 
Nature  turned  hostile,  having  on  my  one  hand  a 
Chimera  known  as  Humanity,  and  on  my  other  an 
indifferent  and,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  distinctly  un- 
lovable Sphinx  recognizable  as  my  Next  Door 
Neighbour.  Oh,  one  liked  people,  of  course,  but 
ah,  how  soon  one  tired  of  them!  Goethe,  with 
that  wise  smile  of  his,  half  compassion  and  half 
disdain,  so  curiously  beguiling  to  me,  so  irritating 
to  my  Next  Door  Neighbour  possessed  of  the 
Greater  Simpler  Truths,  had  remarked,  "A  man 
cannot  live  for  every  one;  least  of  all  for  those 
with  whom  he  would  not  care  to  live!  "  Imbe- 
Iviii 


PREFA  CE 

cility  is  not  a  passport  to  affection.  And  yet  how 
outrageously  true  I  felt,  and  feel,  it  to  be  that 
no  man  can  be  considered  wholly  wise  who  has  not 
learned  to  forgive  what  he  considers  the  medi- 
ocrity of  his  fellows.  Was  it  mediocrity?  Alas, 
look  at  the  world!  Read  the  highly-reputed 
newspaper  run  by  Lord  Alfred  Bouvard  for  the 
consumption  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pecuchet-Smith ! 
Surely  it  must  be  enough  in  an  artist  to  see  them 
as  they  are.  No,  no:  it  cannot  be  necessary  to 
love  them.  Think  of  the  cretin  dwarfs  of 
Velasquez,  of  Don  Sebastian  de  Morra,  El  Tonto 
de  Coria,  of  El  Nino  de  Vallecas.  Has  the  artist 
loved  them  or  hated  them,  or  even  experienced 
compassion  or  contempt  for  them?  No,  he  has 
simply  and  serenely  once  and  for  all  time  seen 
them.  And  yet  to  understand  my  contemporary, 
the  Man  in  the  Street,  just  as  pitiable  and  hideous 
to  me  as  these  "  hombres  de  placer,"  it  was  said 
to  be  necessary  to  love  him!  Could  one,  in  any 
case,  learn  to  love  him?  Perhaps  it  was  his  errors 
that  after  all  made  the  midget-monster  lovable? 
Is  such  love  teachable?  The  soul  of  a  Rembrandt 
is  born  with  a  Rembrandt.  And  yet  Dostoievsky 
was  said  to  have  learned  ...  or  was  it  that  some- 
how he  had  come  to  love?  If  so,  I  was  suspicious: 
to  come  to  love  through  despair,  through  in- 
difference! A  gesture  characteristic  of  the  fakir. 
I  remembered  the  coffee-coloured  eyes,  the  faint 
smile,  the  tenderness,  that  was  more  than  half 
tiredness  and  contempt,  in  the  face  of  a  small 
stooping  man  shuffling  round  an  evening  party, 

lix 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

the  name  of  that  man  being  Anatole  France.  Ah, 
no:  not  that!  not  that!  anything  but  that!  Now 
and  here  and  for  ever  one  must  not  cease  to  care. 
When  one  ceases  to  care  one  dies:  one  becomes  a 
hateful,  horse-faced,  smiling  mummy! 

Illumination  shone  then.  I  did  care.  And  that 
caring  was  guarantee  that  it  was  possible  to  love 
one's  neighbour,  that  in  very  truth  I  did  love  him. 
I  opened  The  Idiot  again.  Pathological?  what 
matter?  Art  and  character  are  judged  by  their 
fruits.  Only  Max  Nordau,  eminent  Philistine 
from  Judea,  judges  otherwise.  My  own  "  reve- 
lation "  might  be  considered  solely  from  a  patho- 
logical point  of  view  as  an  access  of  mental  con- 
fusion and  disturbance.  But  it  had  worked.  I  had 
begun  to  create  in  my  own  life  and  in  art  once 
more.  Nature  adjusts  herself:  all  invention  has 
perhaps  been  due  to  an  unconscious  effort  of  the 
mind  to  enable  its  possessor  to  rank  himself  along- 
side the  physically  efficient.  For  the  word 
Pathology  I  cared  not  two  straws — it  was  one 
with  the  watchwords  of  the  Oversane — "  Good 
Taste,"  "A  Sense  of  Humour,"  "Morbid." 
For  the  sane  man,  who  possesses  the  mens  sand 
in  cor'pore  sano  of  the  English  Public  School's 
doctor  or  master's  requirements,  is  so  eminently 
sane  that  incessantly  to  be  surrounded  by  examples 
of  him  is  to  share  the  fate  of  that  unfortunate 
caretaker  shut  up  for  the  night  in  the  wax-work 
show  only  to  be  found,  poor  fellow,  the  morning 
after,  dead  on  the  floor,  having  battered  himself 
to  pieces  against  the  hard  bodies  of  those  dolls 
lx 


PREFA  CE 

whose  eminent  sanity  of  stare  had  driven  him  out 
of  his  mind. 

Looking  in  to  the  face  of  Prince  Muishkin, 
"  refined  but  quite  colourless,  very  fair,  with  a 
thin  pointed  and  very  light-coloured  beard  .... 
eyes  large  and  blue  with  an  intent  look  about 
them,"  I  recognized  his  affinity  with  Parsifal,  the 
bells  of  Montsalvat  at  that  time  first  unforgettably 
sounding  in  my  ears.  It  was  the  fashion  then  to 
laugh  at  Parsifal — the  briefest  conversations  with 
young  musicians  assured  me  of  this — and  Prince 
Muishkin  was  out  of  favour:  the  war  and  the 
Russian  Revolution,  I  was  informed,  had  killed 
him.  But  for  me  he  lived,  and,  by  the  light  which 
shone  in  his  face  ere  he  fell  in  convulsions,  I  knew 
him  for  the  everlasting  enemy  of  the  Mummy 
which  smiles  with  such  heart-rending  sadness  and 
such  unforgivable  mirth  in  the  security  and  com- 
fort of  the  darkness  in  which  it  abides.  To  this 
extent,  then,  Muishkin  was  Promethean.  But  I 
was  conscious  of  a  certain  anaemia  in  the  figure  of 
the  Prince.  He,  even  as  Parsifal,  was  too  much 
an  abstract  spirit ;  though  I  could  not  be  conscious 
that  there  must  be  an  evolutional  significance  in 
the  fact  that  towards  their  lives'  close  the  two 
mightiest  art-creators  of  the  last  century  had  both 
put  forward  a  singular  combination  of  spon- 
taneity and  passivity  as  the  ideal  figure.  Parsifal, 
however,  seemed,  to  say  the  least,  not  over- 
burdened with  intellect,  and  Muishkin,  I  ob- 
served, is  made  to  live  almost  entirely  without  his 
"  surface  mind,"  thus  to  some  extent  abolishing  a 

Ixi 


GU I LTY     SOU  LS 

threatened  cleavage  in  personality.  Trust  is  all 
that  would  seem  necessary  to  Muishkin.  Could  I, 
should  I  trust?  Well,  there  was  this  to  be  said 
for  the  attitude — that  Goethe  bade  us  turn  our 
eyes  outward.  And  to  trust  is  indeed  a  matter  of 
turning  the  eyes  outward. 

Wordsworth,  Velasquez,  Anatole  France,  Dos- 
toievsky, Wagner,  Goethe — what  a  collection! 
Names,  names,  names.  It  is  the  weight  of  the 
past,  not  the  hope  of  the  future,  that  creates  the 
spirit  of  Bolshevism.  Information  is  too  plenti- 
ful and  too  stale.  Let  us  destroy  it  and  begin 
anew.  Bolshevism  itself  stale  and  a  fraud:  a 
spoiled  child.  Consult  the  oracles.  But  one  is 
tired  of  oracles.  Artists,  artists,  artists:  teachers 
too,  I  suppose,  but  what  of  it?  Turn  your  eyes 
outward.  Yonder  is  a  self-important  little  man 
walking  with  his  bowler  tilted  over  his  nose  be- 
cause the  sun  dazzles  his  eyes.  Is  it  the  sunlight 
makes  him  appear  divine?  Let  us  be  rid  of  poetry 
— particularly  other  people's.  Some  other  poet 
had  gilded  him  for  me — that  damnable  homuncu- 
lus  across  the  way.  And  yet,  three  steps  on  there 
was  a  girl  stretching  and  laughing  as  she  yawned: 
inexplicable  and  beautiful  until  she  leered  at  me. 
But  for  all  that,  three  years  before,  in  the  Charing 
Cross  Road,  I  had  seen  a  sister  of  hers  pick  yet 
another  sister  in  the  profession,  stinking  tipsy  and 
draggled  as  that  sister  was,  out  of  the  gutter  and 
steer  her  past  the  policeman.  Well,  one  must 
begin  with  what  one  knows  or  with  those  whom 
one  may  get  to  know  and  who  may  have  something 
Jxii 


PREFA  CE 

of  whatever  one  has  oneself.  The  UnanimisteS 
beckoned  until  on  a  luckless  noon,  after  I  had 
begun  to  write  poems  of  recognition,  Roger  Fry 
remarked,  with  that  disarming  innocence  of  his, 
that  the  group  at  the  Abbey  had  fallen  to  pieces 
before  the  war. 

What  remained  now  but  vague  International- 
ism and  a  few  friends?  And  was  "  Clarte " 
Internationalism?  Wasn't  there  a  spice  of  pro- 
vinciality in  "  Clarte's  "  superiority?  Could  my 
man  under  the  bowler  and  other  men  under 
bowlers  in  France,  Germany,  Italy,  Spain,  America, 
ultimately  come  to  be  better  loved  and  understood 
through  "  Clarte  "?  I  doubted  it.  And  friends? 
Was  one,  perhaps,  a  little  crazy  to  them? — cer- 
tainly they  could  hear  too  much  of  one  tune, 
which,  moreover,  even  the  best  were  prone  to  take 
for  a  highly  effective  solo  cornet  recital,  relieving 
to  the  giver,  moving  to  the  hearer.  Hell  and 
damnation! — we  had  not  been  brought  up  to  our 
misfortune  among  the  inhabitants  of  Heartbreak 
House  for  nothing!  And  I  sat  down,  again 
alone,  pen  in  hand,  to  write  my  first  play,  Guilty 
Souls,  to  try  to  create  a  work  of  art  out  of  some- 
thing "  seen,"  incidentally  to  review  possibilities 
and  even  at  long  last  to  come  into  touch,  if  not 
with  friends,  with  a  group  so  be  that  I  am  not 
found  behind  my  generation,  outside  or  beyond  it. 

I  have  given  this  fragment  of  autobiography 
because  I  feel  it  may  have  a  significance  for  my 
companions.  I  do  not  desire  to  draw  attention  to 
my  own  struggles — they  have  ended  in  poor 

Ixiii 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

enough  fruit,  heaven  knows!  I  am  sometimes 
ashamed  when  I  think  what  little  use  I  have  made 
of  that  huge  force  in  whose  grip  I  once  was.  But 
now  I  am  not  at  all  sure  whether  I  have  not  been 
right  in  letting  it  almost  entirely  go.  I  should 
perhaps  have  finished  as  a  monk.  Yet,  however 
this  may  be,  the  experience,  whatever  it  was,  and 
the  counsel  of  a  friend,  Doctor  K ,  have  con- 
vinced me  that  to  live  in  oneself  and  for  oneself 
is  not  enough.  He  possesses  but  a  small  world  who 
sees  it  only  with  his  own  eyes.  Christianity  has 
done  that  for  me.  There  are  whole  worlds  of 
experience  which  those  who  pass  Christianity,  even 
in  its  most  orthodox  forms,  provided  they  be 
personally  experienced,  lightly  by  must  miss. 
More  than  ever  I  feel  convinced  that  we  are  on  the 
brink  of  a  great  religious  age,  perhaps  the  greatest 
religious  age  the  world  has  known,  an  age  in  which 
the  idea  of  service,  at  such  a  critical  stage  of  human 
evolution,  will  reach  a  height  hitherto  unguessed. 

A  Play,  Arty  and  Life 

It  seems  to  me  that  we  need  a  restatement  of 
possibilities.  This  drama  is  the  first  of  these 
restatements  so  far  as  I  am  concerned  in  them. 
But  I  did  not  undertake  this  work  in  order  to 
restate,  still  less  in  order  in  any  way  to  preach. 
I  made  it  because,  as  artists  say,  I  "  saw  "  it.  The 
artist  sees  the  germ:  that  germ  contains  the  whole 
work.  I  have  "  worked  "  nothing  "  in  "  that  was 
not  implicit  in  the  germ.  I  hope  that  in  time  I 
Ixiv 


PREFA  CE 

shall  "  see  "  other  things  which  will  form  germs 
for  other  dramas  such  as  may  contain  restate- 
ments of  possibilities.  But  I  shall  follow  art,  not 
preaching.  The  great  thing  in  the  drama  is  to  be 
able  to  create  living  human  beings.  I  care  more 
about  human  beings  and  endeavouring  to  create 
them  in  a  convincing  manner  than  about  anything 
they  believe  or  do  not  believe.  The  aim  of  art 
is  to  deepen  consciousness  by  creating  a  working 
thought-model  in  the  concrete  of  some  section  of 
the  universe.  In  that  working  thought-model  all 
the  laws  concerned  in  that  section,  not  a  selection 
only  of  them,  must  be  displayed.  Your  artist,  no 
less  than  your  scientist,  must  be  absolutely  im- 
partial. It  is  not  his  business  to  draw  conclusions. 
Just  so  many  conclusions,  good  or  bad,  can  be 
drawn  from  a  work  of  art  as  from  life.  Art  is 
neither  immoral  nor  moral.  It  is  simply  amoral 
as  life  is  amoral.  To  the  extent  that  the  artist 
sets  about  creating  it  in  a  spirit  that  is  not  im- 
partial will  it  be  moral  or  immoral,  and  in  the 
degree  that  it  becomes  purposely  one  or  the  other 
will  it  cease  to  be  a  work  of  art.  Why  is  Greuze 
so  bad  an  artist?  Because  he  set  about  being  moral 
in  an  immoral  spirit.  Why  is  Hogarth  so  fine  an 
artist  though  as  moral  as  they  make  them? 
Because,  like  Corneille,  he  believed  that  vice  and 
virtue  had  only  to  be  painted  as  they  are  for 
virtue,  in  Corneille's  austere  words,  "  to  win  all 
hearts  even  in  misery,  and  vice  to  be  hated  even 
though  triumphant." 

Ixv 


Irruption  of  the  Two  Pretty  Twins:  Fogey  and 

Bogey 

I  want  this  clearly  understood — that  I  have  no  axe 
to  grind  save  the  old  axe,  which  is  the  belief  that 
a  sincere  work  of  art  is  not  a  mere  thing  of 
pleasure  but  a  discovery  of  truths  in  operation, 
such  a  discovery  as  should  lead  to  a  deepening  of 
consciousness  in  the  man  who  reads,  sees,  or  hears 
the  work,  if  only  the  work  be  sufficiently 
well  made.  For  on  one  thing  I  am  set:  I  will 
be  what  I  am  and  say  what  I  wish  to  say  whether 
the  result  be  popularity,  derision,  or  indiffer- 
ence, though  the  fogey,  Good  Taste,  and  the 
bogey,  a  Sense  of  Humour,  would  say  me  nay. 
For  I  am  profoundly  of  the  opinion  that  there 
are  those  of  us  who  have  had  enough,  and  a  good 
deal  more  than  enough,  of  that  infernal  pair. 
Those  who  have  read  the  play,  those  who  have 
read  thus  far  in  this  preface  cannot,  I  hope,  have 
failed  to  observe  that  there  is  an  almost  notable 
absence  of  these  Popular  Favourites  throughout 
the  text.  Well,  well;  as  Goethe  remarks,  "Cer- 
tain minds  must  be  allowed  their  peculiarities," 
though,  while  you  are  remembering  that  dictum, 
I  would  remind  you  of  another,  which  may  be  less 
pleasant  to  you,  out  of  the  same  mouth :  "  Art 
rests  upon  a  kind  of  religious  sense ;  it  is  deeply 
and  ineradicably  in  earnest."  Earnestness  does 
not,  of  course,  eliminate  humour.  Far  from  it. 
But  as  far  as  the  merry  English  are  concerned  they 
prefer  the  two  separate.  The  only  other  modern 
Ixvi 


PREFACE 

English  play  dealing  with  personal  redemption, 
as  far  as  I  am  aware,  beside  Guilty  Souls  is  The 
Showing  U-p  of  Blanco  Posnet.  That  play  was 
banished  to  Ireland,  to  be  produced  presumably 
before  Catholics,  who,  as  everybody  knows,  are  a 
frivolous  race  given  to  blasphemy.  Thus  the 
English,  God,  and  the  peculiarities  of  the  English 
Constitution  (which  appoints  a  Censor  to  preserve 
religion)  saved  their  souls,  and  the  Irish  Catholics 
were  afforded  an  opportunity  of  losing  theirs  by 
attending  a  play  the  theme  of  which,  treated  in  an 
earnest  if  humorous  way,  was  such  personal 
redemption  as  is  manifestly  more  necessary  to  an 
Irish  Catholic  than  to  an  English  Protestant. 

Mr.  Punch's  Distinguished  First  Cousins  in  the 

Casualty  List 

Accordingly,  as  cannot  fail  to  be  observed,  there 
is  not  in  my  play  a  single  character  with  a  sense 
of  humour  or  good  taste.  And  I  am  glad  of  it. 
The  Prince  of  Darkness  knows  how  many  souls — 
more  especially  in  England — are  lost  through 
Good  Taste.  That  is  precisely  why  he  hastens  to 
be  known  as  a  gentleman.  As  for  humour,  any 
humour  I  might  have  indulged  in  would  either 
have  prevented  the  play  being  shown  at  all  or, 
being  misinterpreted,  would  have  assured  my 
being  taken  to  the  bosom  of  that  England  which 
I  hate:  the  England  which  has  permitted  humour 
to  become  its  master  instead  of  keeping  humour  as 
its  servant.  For  the  function  of  Humour,  I  take 
it,  is  this:  from  time  to  time  to  twitch  the  self- 

Ixvii 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

elected  by  the  sleeve,  shake  its  bells,  hold  up  its 
mirror  at  an  awkward  angle,  and  ask  his  master 
how  he  likes  the  image.  But  in  England  to-day 
no  man  can  walk  upright  for  the  tugging  of  a 
Bogey-Hercules  at  his  either  elbow  who  pushes 
or  pulls  the  man  who  should  command  him  into 
a  herd  of  mirrors,  originally,  maybe,  the  property 
of  Heartbreak  House.  (Indeed,  I  did  always 
deem  that  plethora  of  mirrors  in  Heartbreak 
House  highly  symbolical.)  And  this  Hercules- 
Bogey  has  a  bad  heart:  he  bids  us  deride  not  only 
ourselves  but  whatever  differs  from  ourselves  in 
possessing  an  energy  or  a  crude  nobility  we  do  not 
understand.  Did  we  observe  him  more  closely  we 
should  discover  that  he  has  become  own  brother 
to  Giant  Sloth  and  Coward  Envy  and  Miser 
Uncharitableness.  Humour  is  a  tonic  medicine, 
restoring  clouded  and  overweening  fancies  to 
clarity:  the  English  of  to-day  have  made  of  it  a 
morphean  and  antic  drug  which  permits  them  to 
drowse  blind  and  deaf  to  the  light  and  the  voice 
within  that  cries  "  Up,  play  the  man.  I  count  none 
great  but  he  that  is  generous  of  heart,"  *  or  crooks 
them — O  ultimate  cruelty! — in  gestures  mimick- 
ing with  the  wickedest  mirth  of  which  mankind  is 
capable  the  responses  that  light  and  that  cry 
should  elicit — to  what  end?  Mockery.  There  lies 
your  crime,  O  Genro,  and  there  yours,  O  Young 
of  To-day,  who  have  permitted  yourselves  to  think 
yourselves  disillusioned:  you  have  forgotten  the 

1  "  Je  ne  reconnais  fas  d'autres  signes  de  superiorite   que  la 
bonte." — Beethoven  to  Beltina  Brentano,  July  17,  1812. 

Ixviii 


PREFACE 

final  essential  to  the  making  of  a  man — Reverence. 
Slay  Humour  ere  Humour  slays  you.  In  the  name 
of  What  do  you  submit  to  such  tyranny?  Is 
Reasonableness  your  God?  If  so,  know  then  that 
Reasonableness  and  Wisdom  are  foes.  Learn  of 
one  mocked  his  life  through  and  now,  if  any  man 
shall  ever  be  immortal,  immortal:  William 
Blake.  He  said,  "Listen  to  the  fooPs  reproach  j 
it  is  a  kingly  title !  "  "  Expect  poison  from  stand- 
ing water,"  "  The  tigers  of  wrath  are  wiser  than 
the  horses  of  instruction,"  "  When  thou  seest  an 
eagle  thou  seest  a  portion  of  genius;  lift  up  thy 
head,"  and  "  He  whose  face  gives  no  light  shall 
never  become  a  star." 

As  for  me,  glancing  back  through  these  pages, 
I  perceive  that  I  have  provided  you  with  several 
little  phrases  of  which  Irony,  the  only  gift  you 
seem  to  have  left,  should  very  well  know  how  to 
make  use.  There  is,  for  instance,  a  phrase  about 
Prometheus  as  "  the  symbol  of  my  God,"  and  a 
phrase  (stolen,  I  would  remark,  from  a  book  by 
Arnold  Bennett  on  Literary  Taste)  concerning  the 
"  passionate  few."  I  present  you  with  these  darts. 
You  will  find  plenty  more  scattered  among  par- 
ticular passages.  Again,  much  in  the  general 
manner  of  this  preface  will,  I  see  not  without  a 
grimmer  humour  than  any  you  dream  of,  afford 
an  admirable  text  for  a  return  of  quotidian 
homilies  on  the  need  of  assistance  from  Hercules- 
Bogey's  elderly  associate,  Good  Taste.  Well,  well, 
in  American  phrase,  "  Go  to  it !  "  Yes,  I  have 
lapsed.  I  am  fully  and  joyfully  aware  of  it. 

Ixix 


GUILTY     SOULS 

Some  of  you  have  lived  so  long  in  Heartbreak 
House,  with  your  eye  on  the  mirrors,  that  the  only 
way  to  get  you  to  realize  the  existence  of  the  out- 
side world  is  to  push  up  the  window  and  permit  a 
bad  smell  to  enter — and  mingled  with  it,  per- 
chance, the  smell  of  fresh  fields  and  flowers  and 
great  winds  so  unlike  the  stifling  odour  of  your 
sick-room  orchids.  For,  as  far  as  a  man  can  ever 
escape  his  past,  I  have  done  with  Heartbreak 
House  for  ever.  I  am  off  for  a  Ramble,  and  you 
shall  find  me,  I  think,  tired  but  content,  if  not 
happy,  when  night  comes  down  and  "  that  clear 
dusk  of  heaven  that  brings  the  thickest  stars " 
curtains  me  about.  I  have  discovered  what  I  care 
for,  and  what  I  care  for  cannot  be  found  in  Heart- 
break House.  Indeed,  Heartbreak  House  could 
never  contain  it,  for  were  it  compelled  to  lie,  in 
however  crystal  a  casket,  among  the  bric-a-brac 
of  the  drawing-room,  undergoing  that  stealthy 
process  of  defilement  which  all  things  in  that 
luckless  house  sooner  or  later  undergo,  how  would 
it  gather  its  forces  together,  how  would  it  crouch 
to  spring,  how,  finally,  would  it  explode,  blowing 
out  all  those  pretty  windows!  But  why  wait? 
I  hold  it  in  my  hand :  that  "  soul  of  sweet 
delight "  which,  as  Blake  sings,  "  can  never  be 
defiled."  Farewell,  then,  to  the  human  and  un- 
human  bric-a-brac!  Already  the  mouse  shrieks 
behind  the  decaying  wainscot,  already  dilapidation 
begins  though  the  cultivated  voices  of  the  guests 
prattle  as  freely  as  ever  for  all  that  now  and  again 
the  graver  among  them  cast  a  glance  towards  those 
Ixx 


PREFA  CE 

Hangings,  storied  by  the  needle's  art 
With  obscure  history  or  classic  fable 
Whose  gist  is  faded  save  in  one  rent  part 
Where  Cain  is  slaying  Abel. 

Accordingly,  since  the  door  appears  locked  or 
has  become  more  than  usually  stuck  through  the 
latest  application  of  the  newest  paint,  let  us  break 
a  hole  in  the  window  and  hop  out. 

Is  anybody  coming  with  me?  The  Ramble  will 
be  long  and  arduous,  and  there  will  be  as  many 
quags  as  the  bravest  heart  in  a  body  having  the 
stoutest  legs  could  wish.  But  I  had  rather  die  in  a 
ditch  or  a  desert  with  a  pint  of  honest  air  in  my 
lungs  or  freeze  on  the  lonely  ledges  of  the  heights, 
if  so  be  Prometheus  account  me  worthy  and  deign 
to  lead  me  thither,  than  perish  observing  myself 
and  others  among  the  tarnished  mirrors,  the  reek 
and  shimmer  of  the  candles,  the  cobwebs,  and  the 
coffin  dust.  "  He  who  does  not  value  life,"  says 
Leonardo,  "  deserves  it  not."  Any  stone,  pro- 
vided it  be  used  with  a  will,  serves  for  the  window. 
And  so  here  goes  with  my  Guilty  Souls. 

The  Writing  of  the  Play 

So  much  for  the  audience.  So  much  for  myself. 
Now  to  the  text.  I  am  perfectly  aware  that  in 
many  ways  this  play  is  a  poor  thing.  But  having 
regard  for  the  circumstances  under  which  it  was 
written  I  find  myself  surprised  that  it  is  not  a 
deal  worse.  In  any  event,  since  it  is  my  first  play, 
it  is  bound  to  contain  many  faults  which,  with 
further  experience  of  the  medium,  I  hope  in  later 

Ixxi 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

work  to  avoid.  It  is  a  play  written  as  the  cir- 
cumstances of  my  life  permitted — that  is  to  say, 
it  was  written  without  that  command  of  leisure 
which  is  so  misunderstood  by  the  world  and  so 
rarely  possible  to  the  artist  of  the  present  age. 
At  the  close  of  the  period  during  which  it  was 
composed  I  was  compelled  to  write  the  last  act — 
scenario  and  all — within  eight  days.  And  I  had 
so  hoped  for  a  month  of  peace  before  I  tackled 
it! — for  two  weeks  of  meditation,  of  that  process 
of  letting  the  subject  sink  out  of  sight  into  the 
deeps  of  the  being,  so  that,  when  you  haul  it  up,  it 
comes  up  in  such  measure,  richly  enveloped  in  an 
atmosphere  of  associations,  overwhelmingly,  ting- 
lingly  attractive  and  apt  to  the  hand  that  you  have 
but  to  give  it  a  shake  and  a  twist  during  the 
following  two  weeks  and,  heigh  presto!  the  little 
figure  forthwith  arranges  itself  in  the  correct 
posture,  seems  to  gaze  at  you  from  within  its 
tenement,  and  all  you  have  henceforward  to  do 
is  to  coax  it,  press  it,  pull  it,  thumb  it  into  growing 
down  to  the  minutest  articulation  even  as  it 
should  in  accordance  with  the  rules  that  govern  its 
particular  being.  But  no  such  luck!  I  had  to 
wrench  the  thing  up,  construct  a  framework  for 
the  last  act  with  my  mind^  not  let  the  framework, 
as  it  should,  construct  itself  in  my  spirit,  and  then 
hurl  myself  at  it,  fingers  all  thumbs,  during  the 
few  remaining  days.  And  the  result  was  that  an- 
other's clay  found  its  way  into  my  own.  I  didn't 
realize  it  at  the  time.  And  now  I  can't  pick  it  out : 
there  are  quite  half-a-dozen  sentences  from  Paul 
Ixxii 


PREFA  CE 

ClaudePs  UOtage  in  the  last  act.  The  situation 
between  Bentley  and  Lois  is  somewhat  the  same 
as  that  obtaining  between  the  Priest  and  Sygne  in 
the  Second  Act  of  UOtage.  Of  this  similarity  of 
situation  I  was  aware.  But  of  the  fact  that  I  had 
borrowed  these  sentences  I  was  not,  for  the  crisis, 
when  it  comes,  is  differently  handled,  and  it  was 
toward  that  that  I  was  so  desperately  moving. 
I  suppose  the  general  feeling  of  ClaudePs  great 
scene — the  greatest  in  the  modern  theatre — had 
me  all  unconscious  in  its  grip.  I  make  haste  to 
acknowledge  what  I  have  not,  owing  to  circum- 
stances over  which  I  have  no  control,  been  able  to 
alter.  The  play  was  finished  at  last.  I  at  once 
rejoiced  and  regretted:  I  had  it  done,  but  done 
only  after  a  sort.  I  regretted  I  had  finished  with 
characters  that  had  become  more  real  to  me  than 
most  living  persons — so  real  that  I  often  felt  as 
if  I  talked  with  them  and,  going  out  to  wander  on 
Boar's  Hill,  half  expected  to  meet  Bentley  slouch- 
ing along  slashing  the  hedge  with  his  stick,  or 
encounter  the  subdued  and  furious  eyes  of  Bryant 
watching  me  from  the  shadow  of  a  door.  And  I 
was  angry,  for  I  knew  that  it  was  unlikely  that 
I  should  ever  be  able  to  alter  and  reshape  the  play 
under  the  circumstances  and  surroundings  of  the 
life  to  which  I  was  going.  For  that  it  must  be 
reshaped  and  remodelled  from  end  to  end  I  per- 
ceived after  reading  it  to  certain  patient  friends, 
among  them  Mr.  Granville-Barker.  The  thing, 
in  the  first  place,  was  much  too  long.  The  first 
two  acts  had  to  be  telescoped.  I  didn't  know  how 

Ixxiii 


GUILTY     SOULS 

to  do  it.  And  to-day  I  don't  know  how  to  do  it. 
Mr.  Granville-Barker  suggested  cutting — with  a 
hatchet.  Hope  revived.  Mere  cutting  on  a  ruth- 
less scale,  then,  would  do — at  any  rate,  for  the 
time  being.  When  the  cut  copy  arrived  I  would 
see  the  sorts  of  mistakes  I  had  made  and  could 
remodel  the  whole  affair.  But  at  the  same  time 
my  heart — despite  the  extreme  kindness  to  me 
and  interest  in  the  play  displayed  by  Mr.  Gran- 
ville-Barker and  Mr.  Bennett  and  Mr.  Masefield 
— very  definitely  sank.  I  felt  that  in  Japan  I 
should  never  be  able  to  begin  again  in  the  old 
spirit.  And  so  it  has  fallen  out.  I  can't  suffi- 
ciently get  back  into  the  mood  to  recreate  the 
whole  affair.  Our  works  are  often  but  prophecies 
of  ourselves,  which  forthwith  become  our  past, 
and  which  we  leave  to  posterity  to  treat  as  it  will. 
When  I  began  I  had  the  "  revelation  "  behind  me, 
but  I  was  still  developing  on  those  lines.  Toward 
the  close  of  the  year  during  which  I  worked  at 
the  play  that  phase  ended.  One  cannot  go  back. 
I  am  beyond  it  now — as  far  as  one  is  ever  beyond 
the  personal  past.  I  have,  therefore,  adopted 
nearly  all  Mr.  Granville-Barker's  cuts,  made  a 
few  adjustments  and  titivations,  and  with  a  some- 
what heavy  heart — the  thing  has  been  in  its  time 
very  much  my  pet  particular  darling — now  launch 
it  on  the  world. 

I  have  one  consolation — its  faults  are  not  the 
faults  of  meanness:  I  don't  think  there's  a  single 
problem  in  the  theme  which  I  have  shirked. 
Whatever  came  up  I  tackled.  The  chief  faults 
Ixxiv 


PREFA  CE 

I  see  in  it  are  these:  it  is  too  long,  it  is  verbose, 
it  is  particularly  faulty  in  construction  during 
Act  III.  Such  as  perceive  these  faults  with  an 
impatience  that  tempts  them  to  think  no  more 
about  the  play  I  ask  to  contemplate  the  problem 
presented.  My  idea  of  a  play  is  that  certain  per- 
sons in  certain  circumstances  are  to  be  set  before 
the  audience,  that  accident  be  barred,  and  that 
those  persons  work  out  their  destinies  before  the 
audience  in  accordance  with  what  was  originally 
postulated  of  the  persons.  In  this  play  the  reader 
will  observe  I  commenced  with  two  solicitors  and 
a  deed  box,  and  I  end  with  two  guilty  souls  and 
God.  Only  those  who  have  never  tried  their  hand 
at  it  suppose  that  such  a  transition  is  easy.  If  I 
were  writing  a  detective  play  for  the  commercial 
theatre  I  should  stick  to  the  deed  box.  But  I  am 
more  ambitious  than  to  wish  to  stir  you  only  with 
the  physical  thrills  of  the  crook's  attempted  escape 
from  a  policeman:  I  wish  to  stir  you  with  the 
thrill  of  a  crooked  soul's  attempted  escape  from 
God.  In  other  words,  I  aim  at  deepening  your 
consciousness  to  a  greater  degree  than  obtains  in 
the  spectacle  of  a  detective  drama,  and  therefore 
at  being  incomparably  a  greater  artist  than  the 
author  of  such  a  detective  drama.  For  the  measure 
of  any  work  of  art  whatsoever  is  the  measure  in 
which  it  deepens  the  consciousness.  There  is  no 
other  measure — that  is  why  a  Pieta  of  Michel- 
angelo is  greater  than  the  figurine  of  a  Dresden 
shepherdess.  For  there  is  measure  between  works 
of  art — whatever  protagonists  of  the  Art  for 

Ixxv 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

Art's  sake  may  assert  to  the  contrary.  And  this 
is  precisely  why  I  am  thankful,  whatever  be  the 
result,  that  I  attempted  this  theme — for  it  is  not 
a  mean  or  a  merely  frivolous  theme.  It  isn't 
written  to  help  an  Englishman  or  American  digest 
his  dinner  or  to  produce  sensual  titillations  in  the 
breasts  of  young  men  or  sentimental  effervescence 
in  those  of  young  women.  Nor  is  it  written  fur- 
ther to  compose  the  minds  of  the  flaccid  or  soothe 
the  self-esteem  of  the  self-indulgent.  In  short, 
I  thank  heaven,  such  as  the  play  is  it  has  come 
from  my  hands  to  this  extent  as  I  wished  it  to 
come — intense,  violent,  uncompromising,  and 
with,  I  hope,  a  cutting  edge  to  it.  I  hope  that  as 
such,  when  and  if  it  is  acted,  it  will  be  acted  like 
the  very  devil.  Certainly  I  shall  have  written 
in  vain  if  it  isn't.  I  want  to  prick  every  single  per- 
son who  sees  it,  to  the  heart.  I  shan't  succeed,  of 
course,  but  that  is  the  idea.  For  my  idea  of  a 
fine  drama  or  tragedy  is  a  drama  or  tragedy  from 
which  each  member  of  the  audience  departs  in 
silence,  in  fear,  and  in  joy,  having  come  into  touch 
with  that  sort  of  holiest  terror  and  holiest  joy  that 
I  feel  in  life  almost  every  day  that  I  live.  I  want 
every  member  of  the  audience  to  leave  the  theatre 
feeling  that  the  stakes  in  life  are  enormous,  and 
that  a  man  should  play  the  game  heroically.  For 
that  is  the  function  of  the  artist — to  take  the  Man- 
under-the-Bowler  and  shake  him  into  startled, 
trembling  and  delighted  appreciation  of  the  fact 
that  merely  to  be  John  Blennerhasset  Brown, 
bowler  on  head,  a  phenomenon  in  this  universe, 
Ixxvi 


PREFACE 

conscious  to  some  extent  of  this  universe  and 
capable  of  becoming  more  conscious,  is,  to  put  it 
mildly,  a  terrifically  exciting  and  awe-inspiring 
existence. 

Farewell  to  the  Genro 

As  for  you,  Genro — whom  I  have  so  much  abused 
— reading  this  book,  forgive  me,  forgive  us,  if  I, 
if  we,  have  hurt  you.  But  how  are  you  to  under- 
stand unless  there  is  brought  home  to  you  some 
of  the  joy  and  the  bitterness  in  our  hearts?  It  is 
not  you  we  dislike,  but  the  apathy  and  cynicism 
you  have  allowed  yourself  to  drift  into.  I  know 
very  well  what  the  Sage  has  said,  that  "  every  man 
over  fifty  is  in  some  sort  a  Lear,"  and  Lear  is  my 
favourite  play.  But  you  must  see  us  as  we  are. 
Our  faults  are  palpable.  Nobody  could  miss  them. 
Are  you  so  sure  that  you  have  taken  an  equal 
trouble  to  explore  our  few  virtues  as  you  have  to 
record  our  over-notorious  vices?  We  wish  to  be 
generous.  There  should  be  no  place  for  bitter- 
ness in  the  effort  to  construct  a  New  England,  a 
New  Europe.  We  have  had  enough  of  bitterness, 
enough  of  hate.  With  your  sarcasm  you  wither 
not  us,  but  our  faith.  That  is  a  distinction  that 
does  not  seem  to  have  occurred  to  you.  You  say 
we  pay  no  proper  attention  to  you.  No  more  does 
the  boy  who  is  whipped.  The  way  to  get  great 
things  of  a  youth  is  to  expect  great  things  of  youth 
along  those  lines,  of  that  substance  which  dis- 
tinguishes that  particular  youth.  You  complain 
of  our  selfishness,  but  you  make  fun  of  our  causes, 

Ixxvii 


GUILTY     SOULS 

of  those  movements,  imbecile  perhaps  as  some  of 
them  are,  which  are  nevertheless  the  first  response 
of  the  Young  Intelligencia  to  questions  and  needs 
which  change  of  circumstances  has  placed  before 
and  charged  to  the  world.  You  didn't  forgive  or 
understand  us  in  the  past:  by  what  we  were,  by 
what  you  thought  of  us  in  the  war — you  had 
plenty  to  say  for  us  then! — try  to  forgive  and 
understand  us  now. 

Of  this  play,  of  this  preface,  you  are  welcome 
to  make  as  much  fun  as  you  know  how.  I  have 
more  than  one  shot  left  in  my  locker.  But  if  you 
make  fun  of  the  sort  of  spirit  which  prompts  such 
efforts,  whatever  their  final  value,  then  you  are 
blaspheming  and  are  absolutely  and  for  ever 
damned.  As  for  me,  whether  you  mock  me  or  no, 
I  care  not.  It  is  not  the  wolves  or  hyenas  I  fear, 
but  the  frost  and  loneliness  of  the  desert.  What 
matter  if  this  fail?  It  isn't  what  one  makes  of  life 
that  counts  so  much  as  the  spirit  brought  to  the 
making.  Let  me  break  so  be  I  do  not  bend! 
No  life  is  very  long,  and,  if  I  bend  not,  that  life 
cannot  be  all  unhappy.  Indeed,  in  writing  this 
play  and  preface  even  now  I  have  found  a  sort 
of  desperate  happiness.  "  He  who  fixes  his  course 
by  a  star,"  says  Leonardo,  "changes  not";  and 
Keats,  "  The  world  is  not  a  vale  of  tears,  but  a 
vale  of  soul-making!  "  I  shall  have  lived  by  that 
which  saves. 

R.  M.  B.  N. 
Tokio,  1921. 

Ixxviii 


To 

ARNOLD    BENNETT 

but  for  whose  enthusiasm  as 
an  artist,  for  whose  patience, 
kindness,  and  gentle  wisdom 
as  a  friend,  this,  the  first 
drama  I  have  ever  undertaken, 
would  never  have  been  fin- 
ished. 


Ixxix 


DRAMAS  FOR  THE  THEATRE  OF  TO-MORROW 
NUMBER  ONE:  GUILTY  SOULS 

Ubi  mihi  bene  fuit  sine  te?    Aut  quando  male  esse 
'potuit  $raesente  te? 

De  Imitatione  Christi  :  THOMAS  A  KEMPIS 

//  I  were  pure,  never  could  I  taste  the  sweetness 

of  forgiveness  of  sins; 
If  I  were  holy,  I  never  could  behold  the  tears  of 

love 
Of  Him  who  loves  me  in  the  midst  of  his  anger. 

Jerusalem:  WILLIAM  BLAKE 


GUILTY  SOULS 


PERSONS     IN     THE     DRAMA 
(in  the  order  of  first  appearance) 

OSWALD  BENTLEY:     solicitor,  senior  -partner  in  Bentley  and 

Vyson 

JOSEPH  PARK:    Ms  confidential  clerk 
PAUL  VYSON:    junior  -partner  in  Bentley  and  Vyson 
CLARA  BENTLEY:    Oswald  Bentley's  wife 
SIR  HECTOR  ADDERLY 
RUPERT  ADDERLY:  Sir  Hector's  son 

MR.  WENTWORTH  :  manager  of  a  branch  of  Smithson's  Bank 
Lois  FORSTER 
A  POLICEMAN 
DOCTOR  HASTINGS 
Two  PLAIN-CLOTHESMEN 

PERIOD:   the  -present 

PLACE:   in  the  East  Midlands  of  England 

ACT  i.  SCENE  I:   Bentley's  room  in  the  office  of  Bentley  and 

Vyson 

SCENE  II:    the  same,  a  week  later 
ACT  ii :    the  dining-room  of  Bentley's  house  some  seven  years 

later 

ACT  HI:   the  same,  three  days  later 
ACT  iv :   the  same,  the  following  morning 


Ixxxii 


GUILTY    SOULS 


ACT   ONE 

SCENE     I 

The  office  of  OSWALD  BENTLEY,  senior  'partner  of 
Bentley  and  Vyson,  solicitors,  a  firm  in  an  East 
Midland  Cathedral  city.  In  the  back  two  windows 
with  green  blinds.  Between  these  windows  a  tall 
bookcasey  in  the  bottom  of  which  is  a  cupboard. 
Above  are  shelves  filled  with  law  books.  On  an 
empty  shelf  a  box  calendar  of  the  roller  pattern  in 
a  conspicuous  position.  In  the  right  wall  down- 
stage a  door  with  frosted  glass  panel.  In  the  left 
wall  upstage  a  deal  door.  To  the  left  of  the  room, 
well  forward  but  with  space  to  move  between  the 
table  and  the  proscenium,  a  table  covered  with 
green  baize  cloth  and  furnished  with  a  writing 
pad,  having  three  chairs  set  to  it — one  chair  on 
each  side  save  the  side  of  the  proscenium.  Under 
the  table  lies  an  opened  copy  of  "  The  Times." 
To  the  right,  not  so  far  forward,  a  heavy  roller- 
top  desk  with  swivel  chair  drawn  up  to  it  and  a 
telephone  on  its  top.  Between  the  desk  and  the 
table  a  chair  for  clients.  In  the  swivel  chair  sits 
BENTLEY,  a  burly,  vigorous  man  of  thirty-seven, 
clean  shaven,  with  a  fine  forehead  and  a  slightly 
careworn  expression  on  his  quiet  but  dogged  face. 
When  moved,  his  features,  apparently  so  reserved, 
become  extremely  animated  in  an  uneven,  brusque 

\ 


GUILTY     SOULS 

sort  of  way,  and  his  voice,  usually  grave  and 
monotonous,  takes  on  a  deep,  varied,  and  musical 
character  which  has  about  it  at  the  same  time  some- 
thing a  little  naive.  It  is  ten  oyclock  on  a  yellow 
foggy  Tuesday  morning  in  November.  The  sound 
of  a  violin  begins  somewhere  outside  the  door  to 
right.  BENTLEY  considers  the  sound.  Presently 
he  touches  a  bell  on  the  top  of  his  desk.  JOSEPH 
PARK,  known  as  "  Joe,"  his  confidential  clerk,  en- 
ters from  the  left.  JOE  is  nearer  sixty  than  fifty 
— a  thin,  insipid,  blue-eyed,  garrulous,  trustwor- 
thy old  nuisance  not  altogether  free  from  malice. 
His  manner  varies  from  the  timid  but  obstinate  to 
the  very  "  -proper,"  mildly  dictatorial.  He  knows 
his  place  and  expects  other  people  to  know  theirs. 
But  towards  BENTLEY  he  exercises  a  tone  of 
highly-respectful  familiarity. 

BENTLEY.    Good  morning,  Joe. 

JOE.    Good  morning,  Mister  Oswald. 

BENTLEY.    Not  a  very  grand  morning. 

JOE.    No,  sir.    Rain  overnight,  I  notice. 

BENTLEY.  Ground's  very  soft.  Daresay  Sir 
Hector  Adderly  wished  it  as  soft  as  this  on 
Saturday.  My  wife  says  she  hears  he  took  a  nasty 
toss.  Heard  anything  of  it? 

JOE.  Sir  Hector's  chief  groom  mentioned  it  o' 
Sunday  when  I  was  coming  out  o'  church. 

BENTLEY.    The  new  groom? 

JOE.  Yes,  sir.  [Chuckling.}  He  doesn't  know 
what  Sir  Hector  is  yet,  sir. 

BENTLEY     [dryly    reproving}.     Perhaps    not. 
Any  particulars? 
2 


ACT     ONE 

JOE.  Sir  Hector's  in  bed  but  not  much  hurt, 
though  he  was  going  at  it — a  gate  it  was — mighty 
hard,  same  as  he  does  everything. 

BENTLEY.  Oh,  well,  that's  that.  Glad  he's  not 
hurt.  Can't  afford  to  lose  a  client.  [He  laughs 
shortly.  ] 

JOE.    No,  indeed,  sir. 

BENTLEY  [handing  papers].    Here:  not  many. 

JOE.  Never  are  o'  Tuesdays,  sir,  and  it's  the 
slack  season. 

BENTLEY.  Um.  Don't  remember  this  as  the 
slack  season  when  I  entered  the  firm. 

JOE.  You  was  too  busy  learning,  sir.  I  re- 
member you  sitting  by  me.  Very  quick  you  was 
too,  sir,  if  I  may  say  so. 

BENTLEY  [impulsively].  Yes,  I  owe  lots  to 
you.  Old  Mr.  Vyson  said  when  he  took  me  into 
the  firm:  "You'll  learn  more  from  Joseph  Park 
than  from  any  examinations."  Here's  another. 

JOE  [taking  papers] .  Did  he  indeed,  sir?  That 
was  like  him:  a  very  kind  old  gentleman,  a  good, 
steady  master  and  a  rare  head  for  business  [glanc- 
ing at  door]  until  he  got  broken  up  by  his  son 
running  off  with  that  Italian  woman.  He  couldn't 
stand  Popish  peoples.  Between  ourselves,  sir,  he 
never  recovered,  and,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  his 
taking  you  on,  the  firm  wouldn't  ha'  recovered, 
either.  You  plucked  his  spirits  up  again. 

BENTLEY.  Hard  work  and  plenty  of  it. 
[Pause.]  But  ...  I  will  be  plain  with  you,  Joe. 
Sit  down.  As  confidential  clerk  you  probably  guess 
it  already — our  business  has  been  falling  off. 

3 


GUI  LTY     S  OULS 

[S faring  gloomily.]     The  firm's  not  what  it  was. 

JOE  [quickly}.  And  hasn't  been  these  six 
months. 

BENTLEY  [glancing  sideways}.    Six  months? 

JOE  [timidly}.  Well,  I — may  I  be  plain,  sir? 
Since  young  Mr.  Vyson — but  p'raps  I'd  better  not 
— it's  only  my  idea. 

BENTLEY  [almost  sharply}.  I  will  not  have 
any  beating  about  the  bush.  Come,  now,  what  is 
this  idea  of  yours?  I  heard  you  mention  young 
Mr.  Vyson. 

JOE  [with  resolution}.  People  don't  like  him, 
sir.  He  isn't  like  other  people.  Not  to  me,  sir. 
I  never  takes  any  notice  of  him.  I  knew  his  father. 

BENTLEY.  I  didn't.  Do  people  bring  up  his 
father  against  him? 

JOE.  In  a  kind  of  way  they  do,  sir.  They 
remember  what  sort  o'  company  he  kept,  sir:  dis- 
graceful it  was,  really,  sir.  An'  then  he  was  a 
blasphemer — a  Bradlaugh  man,  sir,  and  all  that. 
And  he  ended  by  running  off  with  a  Roman 
Catholic.  An  odd  man,  sir,  and  a  bad  man;  he 
left  a  lot  o'  bills  unpaid. 

BENTLEY.     Old  Mr.  Vyson  settled  them. 

JOE.  I  know  he  did,  sir:  a  nice  tot  up  they  were: 
an  'orse  and  gig,  wines  and  spirits  from  the  Crown 
Hotel,  women's  dress,  and  what  was  strange 
church  appointments,  so  I've  heard  say,  incense 
burners,  crucifixes,  and  what  not,  that  aren't  good 
to  mention.  All  that  is  against  his  son.  And  the 
more  particularly  so  since  one  of  our  townsmen, 
come  back  from  Australia,  will  have  it  he  deserted 
4 


ACT     ONE 


his  wife  out  there  and  took  the  boy  with  him. 
It  killed  his  mother:  and  [gesturing  to  door]  the 
boy  running  about  with  a  man  like  him. 

BENTLEY.  All  this  is  news  to  me.  Old  Mr. 
Vyson,  just  before  he  died,  told  me  he  had  cast 
his  son  off  for  good.  Never  told  me  anything  of 
his  escapades.  He  simply  wished  to  help  the 
grandson  there  to  his  articles  and  make  him  a 
junior  partner  on  the  condition  that  he  stayed 
twelve  years  from  the  day  he  entered  the  office. 
No  money  on  any  other  condition.  Hoped  to 
steady  him,  I  suppose.  The  pity  was  that  no 
sooner  was  the  grandson  in  the  office  than  the  old 
gentleman  died.  It  seems  hard  that  they 
should  rake  up  his  father  against  young  Mr. 
Vyson. 

JOE.    Well,  sir,  it  isn't  altogether  that. 

BENTLEY.    What  is  it  then? 

JOE.    He's  that  odd. 

BENTLEY.  H'm,  he  has  his  own  amusements, 
of  course — music,  French  literature,  criminology. 
I  believe  he  writes  verses. 

JOE.  That's  it,  sir:  he's  not  like  other  men,  sir. 
He  doesn't  play  tennis  or  golf  like  a  good  gentle- 
man should,  sir.  And  he  don't  go  to  church, 
either.  Moons  about.  His  manner,  especially 
with  clients,  ain't  just,  sir — sort  as  if  he  was 
laughing  in  his  sleeve.  Ruining  the  business, 
that's  what  he's  doing,  sir. 

BENTLEY  [with  sudden  savagery].  Ruining? 
[Self -composed  again.]  Teh!  nonsense. 

JOE.  People  don't  trust  him,  sir.  How  can 

5 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

they,  sir,  when  they  steps  in  and  hears — [the 
violin  has  begun  again] — at  a  quarter  to  eleven 
of  a  Tuesday  morning? 

BENTLEY  [musing].    Yes  .  .  .  just  so.  [Pause 

and  change  of  tone.]    Thank  you,  Joe.    That  will 

do.  [The  violin  ceases. 

JOE.     I  only  told  you,  sir,  for  your  sake,  sir. 

And  the  firm,  sir. 

BENTLEY.  Quite  so.  Quite  so.  I  understand, 
thank  you. 

[JoE  retires  to  his  den.  BENTLEY  falls  into 
a  brief  reverie,  then  resumes  his  work. 
Presently  the  door  behind  him  clicks.  A 
face  'peers  round,  the  jamb — a  spare, 
strange  face  of  fresh  complexion  with 
turned  down  moustaches  under  a  thin 
nosey  a  little  imperial  beneath  ironic  lips 
and  a  glance,  now  ineffectual  and  for- 
lorn .  .  .  anon  of  a  dark  and  intense 
penetration,  from  restless,  melancholy 
eyes.  BENTLEY,  who  started  a  little 
when  the  door  opened,  goes  on  working. 
After  a  pause  the  door  moves  softly  to 
half  the  extent  of  its  swing,  and  the 
owner  of  the  strange  face,  PAUL  VYSON, 
aged  about  twenty-five,  stands  with  his 
hand  upon  the  jamb,  tip-toe,  half  in, 
half  out  of  the  room. 

BENTLEY  [without  looking  up].  Come  in  if 
you  want  to,  Paul.  [ VYSON  comes  in.  With  de- 
cision.] Good  morning. 

VYSON  [not  without  an  occasional  curious  elabo- 
6 


ACT     ONE 

rateness  of  elocution,  and  always  flaying  with  his 
own  hands  as  he  talks — sometimes  admiring  themy 
sometimes  holding  them  U'p  to  the  lighty  some- 
times hiding  one  of  them  in  the  breast  of  his  coat] . 
Good  morning.  I  wish  one  didn't  always  have  to 
say  "Good  morning":  idiotic  word,  it  only  em- 
barrasses one. 

BENTLEY  {affectionately}.    Too  self-conscious. 

VYSON  [with  a  tiny  flash].  No,  too  conscious 
of  others. 

BENTLEY.    Um.     Pm  rather  busy. 

VYSON.  Busy?  [He  titters.]  Building  up 
that  honest  but  capable,  that  sound  but  enter- 
prising, that  scrupulous  but  shrewd  solicitor's 
business  which  in  the  end  will  land  you — where? 
Where,  indeed?  You  have  already  scaled  the 
heights.  Are  you  not  a  Justice  of  the  Peace  and 
a  churchwarden  at  St.  Thomas — is  it?  Strange 
for  a  man  like  you. 

BENTLEY  [amused  and  affectionate].  Never 
mind.  There's  room  for  Paul  Vyson.  Work  a  bit 
harder  and  you,  too,  will  be  churchwarden  at  St. 
Thomas. 

VYSON.     St.  Thomas,  the  unbeliever! 

BENTLEY.     Exactly. 

VYSON.     Your  religion's  convention. 

BENTLEY.    Your  freethought's  prejudice. 

[VYSON  takes  out  a  cigarette y  taps  it  elabo- 
rately on  the  back  of  his  handy  'produces 
a  silver  match-box.  JOE  enters.  VYSON, 
flourishing,  lights  the  cigarette  and  'pro- 
ceeds to  'play  knuckle-bones y  right  arm 

7 


GUI LTY     S  OULS 

at  full  stretch^  with  the  match-box  on 
the  back  of  his  hand.  JOE  looks  at  VY- 
SON  with  distaste.  As  JOE  passes,  VYSON, 
all  but  missing  a  throw,  exclaims  sharply, 
"  Mind." 

JOE  [with  bitter  -politeness].  Beg  pardon,  sir. 
[To  BENTLEY.]  For  you  to  sign,  sir. 

BENTLEY.  Let  me  see.  [He  goes  through  the 
papers.]  All  correct.  [He  signs.}  There's  one 
more  which  Pd  like  now — Mr.  Buck's.  Get  it, 
please.  [JoE  goes. 

VYSON.  Look  at  that.  Safety  always.  How 
that  conscience  does  work!  You  knew  perfectly 
well  all  those  papers  were  in  order.  It  makes  me 
shudder.  That  is  the  old  unlikeable  display  of 
your  conscience.  The  other  display  I  like:  that 
which  gives  you  at  times  a  sort  of  mental  malaise 
and  makes  you  cross-examine  yourself  as  to 
whether  you  haven't  spent  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
lounging  instead  of  working  for  your  wife. 

BENTLEY  [gently,  but  seriously}.  Leave  my 
wife  out  of  it,  Paul. 

VYSON  [genuine].    Sorry.     I  know  what  she  is 

to  you.    That's  another  of  the  things  I  like  about 

you — your  adoration   of   her,   though   she's   not 

worth  a  third  of  you.     Sorry — said  the  wrong 

thing  again.  [He  laughs  apologetically. 

BENTLEY  [hearty].    You  hardly  know  her. 

VYSON  [with  an  embarrassed  air,  comes  forward 

and  leans  on  the  top  of  the  desk  as  if  he  were  going 

to  say  something.    Then  he  retires  again.    Looking 

at  the  top  of  his  cigarette].    I  say . 

8 


ACT     ONE 

BENTLEY  [a  little  weary].  Well  .  .  .? 
[Smiling.]  Out  with  it. 

VYSON.  It's  nothing.  [BENTLEY  grunts  ironi- 
cally and  bends  to  his  work.  Abruptly.]  Look 
here,  I  want  some  money. 

BENTLEY.  Aha!  good.  We've  been  wasting 
precious  time. 

VYSON.     Precious! 

BENTLEY  [disregarding  the  exclamation] .  Hm. 
How  much  do  you  want?  Twenty  pounds? 

VYSON.  Twenty  pounds!  Not  I.  Well,  I — 
the  fact  is,  I've  run  into  a  bit  of  a  debt. 

BENTLEY.    But  you  live  like  a  student. 

VYSON.  Don't  students  always  have  debts? 
[BENTLEY  laughs.}  I  dropped  across  to  the  Bank 
opposite  and  asked  for  a  loan.  The  manager 
wanted  security:  I  offered  him  my  copper  shares, 
thinking  to  raise  a  hundred  and  forty  pounds  on 
them  easy.  [With  real  spite.]  He  offered  me 
forty  pounds.  [JoE  has  enteredy  unperceived  by 
VYSON.]  I  wish  my  confounded  grandad 

BENTLEY  [nettled  at  last].  Now — ah,  Joe, 
Mr.  Buck's  paper.  [Pretending  to  look  at  paper 
while  he  swallows  his  wrath.}  Thanks.  Yes. 
[He  signs  and  returns  the  paper  to  JOE,  who  re- 
tires again.] 

VYSON  [leaning  on  edge  of  table y  weakly]. 
Well,  what  am  I  to  do?  [BENTLEY  looks  at  him 
without  a  word]  I  must  have  it.  Bentley,  aren't 
you  ever  hard  up?  [Brilliant  smile.]  Come,  say 
you  are  and  I'll  believe  in  humanity  again. 

BENTLEY  [yielding].    Yes,  I  am  hard  up — I'm 

9 


GUI LTY     S  OULS 

a  trifle  hard  up  now,  if  you  want  to  know.  And  I 
hate  grub,  grub,  grub  as  much  as  you  do.  I'd 
like  to  do  something  brilliant.  What's  more,  I 
could. 

VYSON  [cutting  in}.    If  you  had  the  heart. 

BENTLEY  [rising  and  going  over  to  him,  sud- 
denly very  grim}.  If  I  had  the  heart!  Man, 
when  will  you  learn  that  I've  got  the  heart  of  fifty 
chickens  like  you!  [Abrupt  change  of  tone.} 
Sorry.  Bit  worked  up  this  morning,  Vyson.  Joe 
tries  to  hide  it,  but  business  is  not  increasing. 

VYSON  [softly}.  That's  very  distressing.  Vir- 
tue is  its  own  reward — as  usual.  [Slight  pause, 
louder. }  Well,  what  good  does  this  heart  of  yours 
worth  fifty  chickens  like  me  do  you? 

BENTLEY.  R-I-S-K  spells  "Risk."  There's 
my  wife  to  consider. 

VYSON  [watching  BENTLEY  out  of  the  corner  of 
his  eye,  reasonably}.  Are  you  considering  her? 
I  remember  your  telling  me  you  were  not  her  so- 
cial equal  at  the  time  you  married  her.  Look  at 
the  tedium  she  must  feel  in  this  beastly  jog-trot 
provincial  town — after  London.  Think  of  her 
cultivation,  her  intellect,  her  integrity  of  mind. 
Why,  music  alone!  What  chance  has  she  here 
with  the  Philistine,  the  slow-witted,  the  conven- 
tional? 

BENTLEY  [a  little  abashed}.  I'm  so  self-cen- 
tred. I  never 

VYSON  [following  up  his  advantage}.  What 
does  a  woman  not  conceal  .  .  .  for  the  man  she 
loves?  [As  if  absently.}  Think  of  her  daring, 
10 


ACT     ONE 

her  spirit  .  .  .  with  you  she'd  face   [hesitating] 
a  risk.  [Their  eyes  meet. 

BENTLEY.    An  honest  risk? 

VYSON.  An  honest  risk!  Of  course.  You 
surely  don't  suppose  I — 

BENTLEY  [absently].  No,  of  course  .  .  .  your 
eyes  .  .  . 

VYSON  [breaking  out}.  But  to  be  in  debt! 
Wanted,  a  hundred  and  forty  pounds!  Bah! 

BENTLEY.  You  shall  have  your  hundred  and 
forty. 

VYSON  [who  had  turned  awayy  spins  round]. 
What? 

BENTLEY.  YouVe  right.  This  isn't  good 
enough.  Sit  down.  [VYSON  seats  himself  on  the 
edge  of  the  table.}  We've  got  to  make  a  change. 
Now,  listen.  Your  grandfather  was  a  very  astute 
old  gentleman.  He  had  spent  his  life  on  the  firm, 
and  he  wished  that  after  his  death  it  should  con- 
tinue to  enjoy  the  same  reputation  as  it  had  during 
his  life.  To  that  end  he  took  the  most  elaborate 
precautions,  precautions  to  a  great  extent  dictated 
by  the  evil  memory  of  his  son,  your  father,  which 
haunted  him  as  the  absolute  symbol  of  all  that's 
untrustworthy.  First,  as  you  know,  he  let  it  be 
supposed  that  he  had  left  the  business  entirely  to 
me,  while  imposing  a  secret  condition  that  I  should 
take  you  on  if  satisfactory.  He  knew — excuse  my 
referring  to  it — that  your  father's  record  would 
be  against  you,  and,  to  tell  the  whole  truth,  I'm 
inclined  to  think  your  own  character  puzzled  him 
not  a  little.  He  did  two  other  things,  neither  of 

11 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

which  I  have  disclosed  to  you.  He  advised  me  to 
sign  no  actual  deed  of  partnership  with  you  till 
we  had  worked  together  in  verbal  partnership  for 
three  years.  It's  absurd,  but  out  of  respect  for 
him  I  have  kept  it.  Finally,  he  confided  to  my 
care  what  he  called  his  "  little  nest  egg,"  a  box  of 
miscellaneous  investments. 

VYSON.  Ha!  ha!  The  plot  thickens j  an  excel- 
lent ancient.  Go  on. 

BENTLEY.  This  box,  he  explained,  was  for  use 
on  what  he  called  "  a  rainy  day,"  and,  being  in 
doubt  as  to  the  stability  of  your  character,  he 
impressed  on  me  that  I  was  not  to  tell  you  of  its 
existence  till  need  should  arise. 

VYSON.     I  shall  have  my  hundred  and  forty? 

BENTLEY  [shortly}.  Yes,  of  course.  But  your 
difficulties  are  not  the  only  difficulties  we  are  con- 
sidering. Business  is  declining.  The  firm  must 
strike  out.  YouVe  heard  me  speak  of  Braithwaite's 
plunge  in  rubber?  Very  well,  Pve  alternative 
schemes  worked  out;  and,  if  not  rubber,  then 
oil. 

VYSON.     Damned  risky. 

BENTLEY.  Who's  got  a  heart?  Pve  studied 
those  markets  for  two  years  now. 

VYSON.  So  that's  what  you  do  with  your  eve- 
nings at  home,  eh?  Enterprise,  hurrah!  [Anx- 
iously.} You'll  pay  off  my  debts  before  we  begin? 

BENTLEY.     Yes,  yes.     Well,  according  to  the 
present  state  of  the  market  the  sooner  the  better. 
Will  you  step  across  to  the  bank  and  get  the  firm's 
deed-box? 
12 


ACT     ONE 

VYSON.    My  hat's  across  the  passage. 

[VYSON  goes  out  to  right. 

BENTLEY  [pulling  at  the  papers  on  his  desk]. 
Where's  that  note  I  made  about  Adderly? 
[VYSON  re-enters y  hat  in  hand.]  Oh,  Paul,  you 
might  bring  Adderly's  box  as  well  while  you're 
about  it.  I  want  to  check  the  securities  by  this 
list.  Time  one  or  two  mortgages  were  called  in. 
[Change  of  tone.]  Well,  it's  agreed?  You  trust 
me? 

VYSON.     I  shall  get  my  hundred  and  forty? 
BENTLEY.     Of  course — before  we  begin.     But 
the  new  scheme? 

VYSON  [heartily] .  Oh,  go  ahead,  my  dear  chap, 
go  ahead.  I  trust  you  absolutely.  It  won't  affect 
me. 

BENTLEY.    But  it's  the  firm's  money. 
VYSON  [with  a  gleam  of  mischief].    Just  so. 
[He  shakes  hands  energetically  and  goes  out 
to  right.] 

BENTLEY.    Well,  I'm [He  shrugs.    Then 

he  begins  a  determined  march  up  and  down  the 
room,  thumbs  in  waistcoat  upper  pockets,  fingers 
tapping  his  chest,  head  poked  forward.  He  mut- 
ters.] I  shall  need  four  thousand  at  least.  Have 
we  got  it? 

[  The  door  to  the  right  suddenly  opens  and 
MRS.  BENTLEY  enters — a  self-possessed, 
slim,  rather  rigid,  fair-haired  Athene  of 
twenty-eight.  She  holds  an  open  tele- 
gram in  her  hand. 

[Directly  the  door  opened  BENTLEY  had 

13 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

swung   round.    His   voice   as   he   cries 

"  Clara!  "  is  not  encouraging. 

CLARA  [whose  voice  is  singularly  hard,  clear  and 

bright}.     No  other.      [She  approaches  him  and 

says  with  an  air  of  Puritan  demureness  as  she  looks 

into  his  eyes.}     I  know  that  in  my  wifely  duty  I 

shouldn't  disturb  you — but- 


BENTLEY.    I'm  very  busy  this  morning,  I- 


CLARA  [with  just  a  hint  of  irony}.  Yes,  I  see 
you  are. 

BENTLEY.    Is  it  important? 

CLARA.     Yes,  youVe  got  to  decide  something. 

BENTLEY  [bluntly}.  Are  you  sure  you  haven't 
decided  something? 

[She  holds  up  the  telegram  with  a  deter- 
mined air  of  spritely  mockery. 

BENTLEY  [still  preoccupied.}     Who's  it  from? 

CLARA.  Your  sister.  [Reading.}  "  Can  Lois 
come  and  stay  with  you  in  week's  time  pending 
possible  arrangement  mentioned  in  last  letter?  ' 

BENTLEY  [rousing}.  Lois!  Let  me  see j  which 
daughter  is  Lois? 

CLARA.  Funny  how  you  always  get  mixed  up 
over  the  relations  in  your  own  clan.  [Slowly.] 
Listen:  Lois  is  the  daughter  of  your  sister's  late 
husband  by  his  first  wife.  The  other  four  that  the 
poor  dear  has  on  her  hands  are  her  own  children. 

BENTLEY  [musing].    Lois  is  the  dark  one. 

CLARA.    The  intelligent  one. 

BENTLEY.  The  fact  is,  she  wants  to  get  rid  of 
Lois 

CLARA.  Well,  yes.  Agatha,  her  eldest 
14 


ACT     ONE 

daughter's  nearly  grown  up  and  can  help  her 
with  the  three  little  ones.  I  fancy  Lois,  not  being 
her  own  daughter,  has  always  been  a  little  strange 
to  your  sister.  She  wrote  to  me  a  week  ago.  But 
I  didn't  realize  it  was  pressing,  and  so  didn't 
worry  you. 

BE  NT  LEY.  Of  course  she  can  stay.  That's  if 
you  wish  her. 

CLARA.  It  may  be  for  good.  But  she'll  be  six- 
teen— old  enough  for  me  to  talk  to 

BENTLEY.  To  talk  to!  I  don't  follow  you: 
I  mean,  it's  going  to  be  an  expensive  luxury — a 
nearly  grown-up  girl  to  keep! 

CLARA.    Do  you  grudge  it? 

BENTLEY  [lamely].    Well,  I 

CLARA.  Oswald,  what  sort  of  a  life  do  you  think 
it  is  I  lead?  You  have  your  work — but  what  have 
I,  transplanted  from  London  to  this  wretched 
cathedral  city? 

BENTLEY  [the  universe  beginning  to  reel].  But 
I —  I —  I  thought  you  were  happy! 

CLARA.  The  happy  always  think  other  people 
are  happy. 

BENTLEY.    The  happy!     Um. 

CLARA  [disregarding,  sunk  in  her  own  appeal]. 
But  I'm  lonely.  The  house  is  very  empty  when 
you're  not  there.  And  nothing  ever  happens.  I 
get  clogged  up.  I  begin  to  die.  I  was  used  to  sun- 
light and  the  exchange  of  thoughts.  Nobody  has 
thoughts  here,  and  they  live  like  mice  in  dark 
rooms.  [BENTLEY  walks  up  and  down. 

BENTLEY  [stopping].    Will  Lois  help  you? 

15 


GU ILTY     SOULS 

CLARA.    Yes.    She  is  the  first  step. 

BENTLEY.    The  first  step? 

CLARA.  Oh,  yes,  the  first  step.  Forgive  me, 
Oswald,  but  I  can  hide  it  no  longer.  I  can't  go  on 
like  this.  I  feel  I  shall  die.  Pm  being  buried 
alive. 

BENTLEY  [very  slowly].  I  see.  [Pause.] 
Well? 

[He  gives  her  a  long  look  almost  of  re- 
proach.   She  smiles  lovingly. 

CLARA  [coming  up  to  him  and  laying  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders].  Well?  [Mesmerizing  him 
with  her  eyes  and  then  withdrawing  lightly.] 
Lois  may  come? 

BENTLEY  [subdued].  Buried  alive!  [With 
sudden  violence.]  Yes,  wire  she  can  come  to-day 
if  she  likes.  [Sharply.]  Now  let  me  get  on  with 
my  work. 

CLARA.    Teh!     You  are  rude. 

BENTLEY.  Pve  got  work.  [CLARA  makes  a 
face.  Having  gained  her  point  she  is  all  gaiety , 
teasing,  and  love.]  You  don't  seem  to  realize 
that  that  work's  for  you. 

CLARA.  And  what  a  dull  room  to  work  in! 
Pm  sorry  for  you.  [She  kisses  the  top  of  his 
head.]  There!  [He  shrugs. 

CLARA  [standing  up].  Patience!  [Bending.] 
Thank  you  for  letting  Lois  come.  [She  kisses 
him.]  Good-bye.  [At  the  door  she  turns  to  look 
back.  BENTLEY  has  evidently  at  once  forgotten 
her  existence.  Before  he  knows  what  she  is  up  to, 
she  has  come  back  and  flung  her  arms  round  his 
16 


ACT     ONE 

neck  and  kissed  him.]  Teh!  don't  swear.  Ow! 
You're  deliciously  strong.  [With  a  sudden  cry.] 
Don't!  You're  hurting.  [She  stands  back.] 
How  could  you!  You've  bruised  my  arm. 

BENTLEY  [a  good  deal  ruffled].    Nonsense. 

CLARA.    You  have. 

BENTLEY.  Well,  look  at  my  table.  [He  points 
to  the  disorder  consequent  on  the  embrace.} 

CLARA  [passionately].  Damn  your  business:  it 
makes  me  jealous.  You  forget  me  directly  my 
back  is  turned. 

BENTLEY  [almost  bitterly].    Do  I!     Do  I! 

CLARA  [recovering].  Well,  no:  but  you  did 
hurt  me.  You  are  strong,  you  know. 

BENTLEY  [repentant].  I'm  sorry,  my  dear. 
Business  is  very  engrossing.  It  has  to  be. 

CLARA.  More  so  than  love?  Now,  just  to 
prove  it  isn't,  and  to  show  you're  sorry  for  these 
bruises  you've  given  me  you  can  come  out  and  buy 
me — what  shall  you  buy  me? — a  box  of  chocolates, 
yes,  a  box  of  chocolates  for  us  both  at  the  shop 
next  door.  It'll  do  you  no  harm  to  leave  this  for 
a  minute.  You  look  worried.  It'll  clear  your 
mind. 

BENTLEY  [half  grumpy  y  half  laughing]. 
Clara,  you  really  are! 

CLARA.  Now,  don't  say  anything  blunt!  [She 
goes  toward  door].  Besides,  I  like  to  be  seen  in 
the  town  with  you. 

BENTLEY.    Incorrigible! 

CLARA.     Incorrigible? 

BENTLEY.     Incorrigible    lover!     I'm    nothing 

17 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

but  your  beloved  chattel.     [  Touching  bell.  ]    Half 
a  moment.      [JoE  appears.]     Joe,  just  tell  Mr. 
Vyson,  if  he  comes  in,  that  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute. 
[Mr.  and  Mrs.  BENTLEY  go  out.    JOE  picks 
"  The  Times  "  from  the  floor  and  puts 
it     on     the     table;     then,     exclaiming 
"  Hello!  hello!     Now  how  did  I  forget 
that?  "  goes  toward  the  calendar  and 
turns  it  from  Mon.  23rd  to  Tues.  24-th. 
Then  he  returns  to  his  den.     VYSON, 
with  his  hat  on,  enters  abruptly,  carrying 
two  boxes,  marked  respectively:  "  Sir  H. 
Adderly  "  and  "  L.  Vyson."     These  he 
places  on  the  table.    VYSON  goes  over  to 
BENTLEY'S  desk,  looks  in  the  top  right- 
hand  drawer,  and  'pulls  out  a  bunch  of 
keys.    He  selects  two.    Then  he  'picks  up 
the  list.     As  he  walks  back  scanning  it 
JOE  enters.     VYSON  abruptly  turns  the 
list  over.    It  slips  off  the  table. 
JOE.     Oh,  the  master — Mr.  Oswald  I  mean, 
sir — has  just  run  out  a  moment  with  Mrs.  Bentley 
— he  told  me  to  tell  you.     [VYSON  is  stooping.} 
Allow  me,  sir.  [He  bends. 

VYSON.  lean.  [JoE  secures  the  list.]  I'll  just 
hang  up  my  hat.  [  VYSON  goes  out  to  right.  JOE 
scans  the  list  with  lips  pursed  reprovingly.  Then 
he  looks  at  the  names  on  the  boxes,  and  seeing  the 
name  "  Adderly  "  his  face  becomes  grim  as  he 
glances  at  the  door.  VYSON  re-enters.  ]  That  will 
do,  Joe,  you  may  go. 

[JoE  goes,  not  without  a  backward  gaze  or 
18 


ACT     ONE 

two  at  VYSON,  who  stands  juggling  with 
the  keys.  No  sooner  is  JOE  gone  than 
VYSON  unlocks  both  boxes,  and  is  about 
to  plunge  his  hand  into  Sir  Hector's 
when  BENTLEY  returns. 

BENTLEY.  Back  so  soon!  So  you've  opened 
them? 

VYSON.  Yes.  All  ready — ours  and  that  scoun- 
drel Adderly's.  [He  lifts  the  boxes.}  You  feel 
the  weight  of  it.  There's  something  for  an  old 
canting,  bullying  swine  of  a  foxhunter  for  you. 
He's  a  cad  if  you  like. 

BENTLEY  [-preoccupied,  overcast}.  Yes,  he's  an 
ill-tempered  sort  of  man. 

VYSON  [walking  up  and  down}.  Mean,  too. 
And  look  at  all  that  money!  Never  spends  a 
penny  on  decent  civilized  things.  Nothing  but 
torturing,  maiming,  and  killing  animals — what  he 
calls  old-fashioned  English  sport.  Doesn't  even 
look  after  his  property.  Lets  it  drift  except  for 
grudging  a  penny  where  it  would  be  useful.  Hard 
on  his  tenants,  too — and  what  for?  Foxhounds! 
and  half  the  country  loathing  him  so  much  they 
wouldn't  ride  a  mile  to  a  meet  of  his.  Bah! 
[Meanwhile  BENTLEY  is  running  his  eye  over  the 
contents  of  the  box.  His  face,  as  he  sits  at  the 
table,  expresses  profound  discouragement.}  And 
to  think  of  all  this  money  [stirring  papers  and 
talking  on}  just  lying  idle!  Enterprise!  Good 
heavens!  If  I  had  that  little  lot,  or  a  tithe  of  it, 
I'd  make  things  hum,  I'd  make  it  work  for  me  and 
mine.  See  here — [he  takes  up  the  documents  in 

19 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

a  bunch  and  makes ,  over  BENTLEY'S  shoulder  as  if 
to  •put  them  into  the  other  box} .  That'd  look  bet- 
ter, eh?  [The  eyes  of  the  two  men  meet.  VYSON 
drops  the  documents  over  BENTLEY'S  hands,  turns 
away,  walks  a  step  or  two  and  says.]  Well,  how 
do  our  precious  millions  stand? 

BENTLEY     [automatically     restoring    dropped 
documents    to    Sir    Hectorys    box}.     Er    — um. 

Haven't  finished  looking  through  'em 

VYSON.    I'll  get  my  hundred  and  forty? 
BENTLEY.     You    may    and    you    mayn't.     It 
doesn't  look  absolutely  rosy. 

[He  blows  through  his  teeth. 
VYSON  [springing  round}.  What?  O  hell! 
What's  the  good  of  this  foolery?  [Suddenly 
striding  up  to  BENTLEY,  leaning  over  him,  and 
speaking  through  set  teeth.}  By  God,  if  I  had  a 
wife,  if  I  had  a  heart,  I'd  do  something,  I  would! 
[He  goes  out  slamming  the  door.  BENTLEY, 
towering  with  rage,  goes  up  to  the  closed  door 
with  clenched  fists  lifted.} 

BENTLEY  [sotto  voce}.  You  would?  [He  re- 
turns to  the  table  and  fingers  the  papers,  half  in- 
coherent exclamations  escape  him.}  "Would  you, 
indeed?  "  "  If  I  had  a  wife!  "  "  Buried  alive!  " 
[A  sudden  look  of  resolution  comes  into  his  face. 
"Very  well!  "  he  says,  and  becomes  quite  calm. 
He  runs  a  finger  down  Sir  Hector's  list.  Then  he 
looks  stealthily  round,  takes  the  Adderly  box  and 
places  it  in  the  cupboard  under  the  bookshelves  be- 
tween the  windows.  Then  he  rings  his  bell.  Re- 
turning to  the  table,  he  pretends  to  be  running 
20 


ACT     ONE 

through  the  firm's  box.     JOE  enters.]      Anyone 
been  in? 

JOE.  Yes,  sir — Mr.  Vyson.  I  gave  him  your 
message. 

BENTLEY.  Ah,  Mr.  Vyson,  with  this  ['pointing 
to  the  firm's  box}  ?  Anyone  else? 

JOE.    No,  sir. 

BENTLEY.  You  may  go.  [But  JOE  hesitates.] 
Well,  what  is  it? 

JOE.  If  I  might,  sir:  did  you  ask  for  Sir 
Hector's  box?  I  wouldn't  mention  it,  sir,  but  it 
was  that  strange.  [He  looks  at  the  table  and  sees 
the  box  marked  Adderly  is  gone.] 

BENTLEY  [easily].  Sir  Hector's  box?  I  don't 
think  so,  but  we  are  due  to  run  through  the  securi- 
ties soon,  aren't  we?  I  daresay  Mr.  Vyson  has  it. 

JOE.  Mr.  Vyson  has  indeed,  sir;  I  saw  him 
...  his  face  .  .  . 

BENTLEY.  Joe,  don't  fuss.  You  seem  to  have 
got  Mr.  Vyson  on  the  brain. 

JOE.    I  was  going  to 

BENTLEY.    Not  now,  Joe,  not  now. 

[He  bends  over  the  firm's  box. 

JOE  [departs,  muttering  in  a  -purposely  audible 
tone}.  You'll  regret  not  listening. to  me,  sir. 
You'll  be  swindled. 

BENTLEY.  Am  I  supposed  to  hear  that  last  re- 
mark? Be  careful! 

[JoE  retreats  -precipitately .  Scarcely  has  the 
door  closed  when  BENTLEY,  exclaiming 
softly  "  Swindled — I  ?  "  gently  bolts 
JOE'S  door.  Then,  going  to  the  cu-p- 

21 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

board,  he  brings  Sir  Hector's  box  to  the 
tabley  selects  two  documents  and,  with  a 
swift  motion,  transfers  them  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  firm's  box — not  before  he 
has,  however ,  paused  a  moment  in  silent, 
smiling  vindictiveness  to  shake  the  docu- 
ments toward  the  door  by  which  his 
partner  had  left,  and  from  beyond  which 
now  float  the  strains  of  a  mournful 
violin.  For  a  moment  he  contemplates 
his  handiwork,  then  quietly  places  the 
list  in  Sir  Hector's  box,  closes  it  and 
locks  it.  Next  he  looks  at  the  City 
column  of  "  The  Times,"  which  JOE  had 
picked  up,  and  traces  a  few  figures  on  a 
sheet  of  paper.  He  goes  toward  the 
door  to  the  right,  assuming  an  air  of 
ease  and  vivacity.  He  steps  out  and 
calls  "  Paul!  Paul!  "  The  violin  stops. 
BENTLEY  re-enters  the  room.  VYSON 
follows  him  in. 
VYSON  [surlily}.  Well? 

BENTLEY  [not  looking  at  him].  Pve  worked  it 
out.  [He  picks  up  the  sheets  of  paper.}  We  can 
just  do  it:  your  debts  and  my  scheme.  [He  lifts 
two  documents  from  the  bottom  of  the  firm's  box.  } 
You  see  these  Bearer  securities?  Take  them  across 
to  the  bank  and  tell  Wentworth  to  sell  them 
through  the  bank's  broker  at  once.  Say  it's  for  a 
client.  We  don't  want  the  bank  to  know  too  much. 
Speculation  isn't  considered  the  business  of  a 
solicitor  in  a  cathedral  town.  [He  laughs.} 
22 


ACT     ONE 

They'll  fetch  about  £4200,  which  satisfactory  sum 
we  must  have  in  two  days.  You'll  take  your  £140 
— the  rest  will  be  for  the  scheme. 

VYSON  [admiringly].  That's  it.  That's  the 
sort  of  way  to  set  about  things. 

BENTLEY.  And  you  can  take  these  boxes  back 
at  the  same  time.  [He  locks  them  and,  'puts  the 
key  back  in  his  drawer.  ] 

VYSON.  Certainly.  [With  effusion.]  I  say, 
this  is  grand! 

BENTLEY  [indulgently,  laughing].  Test  of  the 
"  heart  worth  fifty  chickens,"  you  know. 

VYSON.    Hurrah!     Au  revoir. 

BENTLEY.  Don't  forget  your  hat  in  your  joy. 
[No  sooner  has  VYSON  safely  closed  the  door  than 
BENTLEY  glides  over  and  unbolts  JOE'S  door. 
Then  he  resumes  his  seat  and  rings.  JOE  appears.] 
Joe,  draw  that  blind  down.  You  know  the  trick  of 
it.  The  sun's  come  out,  it's  in  my  eyes.  I  feel 
dazed.  [As  JOE  goes  to  the  window  VYSON  passes 
with  both  boxes.] 

JOE  [to  BENTLEY,  whoy  after  watching  JOE  give 
a  start,  is  standing  at  his  desk  tapping  the  palm  of 
his  hand  with  a  paper-knife .]  There.  Mr.  Vy- 
son's  going  with  both  boxes.  Sir,  sir,  I —  \_at  this 
moment  the  telephone  on  the  desk  top  rings.  The 
paper-knife  has  ceased  to  tap.] 

BENTLEY  [in  a  tense  reverie] .    See  who  it  is. 

JOE  [at  the  telephone].  Hello  .  .  .  hello. 
Who?  .  .  .  Barrett?  Sir  Hector  Adaerly's  agent 
wishes  to  speak  to  you  .  .  . 

BENTLEY  [holding  the  paper-knife  suddenly 

23 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

stiff  in  the  airy  says  steadily}.  See  .  .  .  what 
...  he  ...  wants. 

JOE.  Eh  .  .  .?  eh  .  .  .?  a  week  to-day  .  .  . 
yes  .  .  .  what?  [In  a  sudden  panic]  What  box? 
.  .  .  Oh,  there — he's  rung  off!  [Standing  up- 
right. ]  Sir  Hector  wishes  you  to  know  he'll  be  in 
here  to-day  week,  and  will  you  have  his  security 
box  brought  over  from  the  bank  for  him?  [BENT- 
LEY  nearly  drops  the  paper-knife.]  But,  sir, 
sir 

BENTLEY.  A  week  to-day,  did  you  say?  [Pull- 
ing himself  together y  waving  JOE  away.}  Very 
well.  [As  JOE  closes  door  to  the  left.]  Why  not? 


QUICK  CURTAIN 


24- 


ACT   ONE 

SCENE     II 

The  same  office  at  9-30  6* clock  on  a  bright  frosty 
morning  a  week  later.  JOE  is  standing  adjusting 
the  calendar.  When  he  has  turned  it  to  Tuesday , 
November  3\st,  he  puts  it  back  on  the  shelf  and 
shakes  his  head  at  it.  At  this  moment  the  door 
opens  and  BENTLEY,  brushing  a  dust  of  frost  from 
his  sleeve,  enters.  There  is  frost  and  gravel  on 
his  back. 

BENTLEY.     Good  morning,  Joe. 

JOE.    Morning,  sir. 

BENTLEY.    Give  me  a  brush,  please. 

JOE.  Not  an  accident,  I  hope,  sir.  [Takes  the 
brush  from  the  shelf.} 

BENTLEY  [briefly ,  as  JOE  brushes}.  A  neigh- 
bour drove  myself  and  Mrs.  Bentley  in.  On 
Flexham  Hill  the  horse  fell — road  was  like  ice 
after  the  frost.  I  was  pitched  out  of  the  dogcart. 

JOE.  What  an  unlucky  way  to  begin  this  day, 
sir. 

BENTLEY  [eyeing  him,  abruptly}.  By  Jove, 
what's  the  time?  My  watch  jumped  out  of  my 
pocket  and  I  fear  the  spring's  gone.  Bring  in  your 
clock,  will  you?  [JoE  goes.  BENTLEY'S  nervous- 
ness is  immediately  apparent.  At  JOE'S  re-entrance 
with  a  cheap  clock,  which  he  places  on  the 
top  of  BENTLEY'S  desk,  BENTLEY  resumes  his 
business  air.}  Er — is  that  right?  Only  a  quarter 
to  ten? 

JOE.  Five  minutes  fast,  sir.  Set  by  the  Town 
Hall. 

25 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

BENTLEY  [absently].  Twenty-five  minutes  and 
then  [he  becomes  aware  that  JOE  is  waiting)  and 
says  briskly]  in  twenty  minutes  or  so  Miss  Lois 
should  be  at  the  station.  D'you  remember  Miss 
Lois? 

JOE.    Nice  spoken  little  missie,  sir. 

BENTLEY.  Daresay  she's  grown  up  since  the 
day  her  poor  dad — he'd  dead  now — brought  her 
in  here  on  his  way  through  the  town.  Well,  well. 
[Beaming. ]  Now,  d'you  call  that  an  unlucky  day? 

JOE  [unrelieved].  In  twenty  minutes  Sir 
Hector  will  arrive. 

BENTLEY  [shamming].    Sir  Hector? 

JOE.    Sir  Hector  Adderly,  sir. 

BENTLEY  [as  before].  So  he  will,  so  he  will. 
About  the  box — you  brought  it  over  from  the 
bank  last  night?  Have  you  seen  his  agent,  Barrett, 
at  all?  Any  idea  what  Sir  Hector  wants  with  it? 
He  hasn't  rung  up,  I  suppose. 

JOE.    Yes,  sir. 

BENTLEY.  Oh!  [Rapidly.]  Isn't  Sir  Hector 
coming? 

JOE.  Mr.  Barrett  rang  up  to  say  he  thought 
Sir  Hector  might  be  a  moment  or  two  late,  but 
he'd  telephone  if  he  couldn't  come. 

BENTLEY.    Aha,  I  see. 

JOE.  There's  a  certain  amount  this  morning, 
sir 

BENTLEY.  Er — yes,  that  can  wait.  No,  I'll  see 
it  now.  [JoE  goes  by  door  to  his  den.  BENTLEY 
sits  staring  morosely  at  the  clock.  JOE  re-enters. 

JOE.    There's 

26 


ACT     ONE 

BENTLEY  [sharply}.  Mr.  Vyson  in  yet,  d'you 
know? 

JOE.    No,  sir. 

BENTLEY  [with  a  sudden  gust  of  passion}. 
Damn;  I  say  damn.  Isn't  he  coming?  He  must 
be  here  this  morning. 

JOE.  He'll  be  in  in  a  minute,  sir.  [Meeting 
BENTLEY'S  eye.]  At  least,  I  hope  he  will,  sir.  I 
—  [hazarding}  he's  taken  to  reading  a  foreign 
newspaper  lately,  sir. 

BENTLEY  [staring].  What  on  earth  are  you 
driving  at? 

JOE  [faltering].     I  don't  know,  sir,  I 

BENTLEY.  Neither  do  I.  [Change  of  tone.] 
I  don't  think  your  clock's  going.  It  doesn't  seem 
to  move.  [Another  change.}  Well,  let's  get  on 
with  the  work. 

JOE.  It  is,  sir.  Look,  sir.  [He  holds  up  the 
clock.]  Watch  the  minute  hand. 

BENTLEY  [irritably].  Take  it  away.  Yes.  I 
suppose  it's  going. 

JOE  [putting  the  clock  down  and  coming  round 
to  BENTLEY'S  left}.  First,  there's  the 

BENTLEY.    I  think  I  hear  Mr.  Vyson. 

JOE.  No,  sir.  [Recalling  him.}  Mr.  Hunt- 
ington  and  his  new  tannery — the  contractors 

BENTLEY  [impatiently].  What  next?  I  know 
all  about  that 

JOE.     Old  Mrs.  Stewart.     You  remember  her 

action.    She  wishes 

[The  door  opens  and  VYSON  enters,  hat  in 
hand,  carnation  in  button-hole,  almost 
jauntily. 

27 


GUILTY     SOULS 

VYSON.  Morning,  Bentley.  [He  nods  distantly 
to  JOE.]  Old  Thunderclap  been  in  yet?  'Fraid 
I  might  be  late. 

BENTLEY  [glancing  at  clock].  No,  Sir  Hector 
should  be  here  in  ten  minutes  or  so.  He'll  tele- 
phone if  he  can't  come. 

VYSON  [suddenly  peevish].  Wish  to  heaven 
he'd  telephone  then.  I  hate  him.  [BENTLEY 
dismisses  JOE,  who  goes  to  his  den.  ]  Such  a  petty 
tyrant,  too.  Never  content  with  one  member  of 
the  firm — must  have  the  whole  boiling  standing 
round  kow-towing,  and  that  when  he  only  comes 
in  once  in  a  couple  of  years  or  so.  I've  got  my 
own  work  to  do. 

BENTLEY  [making  gentle  fun].  Taken  to  add- 
ing another  language  to  your  French  and  German? 
[Absent-mindedly,  covertly  glancing  at  clock  as 
he  speaks.]  Old  chattering  Joe  says  he's  discov- 
ered you  in  the  very  act  of 

VYSON  [palpitant].    What? 

BENTLEY.  Reading  a  foreign  newspaper  in 
business  hours! 

VYSON  [taken  aback\.  Oh.  [Irritably,]  Blasted 
old  fraud,  what's  it  got  to  do  with  him?  [Posi- 
tively.] Ah,  I  know  what  he  means  now.  Yes, 
as  a  matter  of  fact  I  did  buy  a  Spanish  newspaper 
the  other  day.  I  was  looking  at  the — Spanish  is 
not  so  hard,  you  know — Brazilian  Business  Supple- 
ment. There  is  fuller  news  sometimes  of  South 
American  local  conditions.  The  Rubber  Trade. 
To  help  you  with  your — our — by  the  way,  how's 
it  going? 
28 


ACT     ONE 

BENTLEY  [briefly].    Fine. 

VYSON.    Pd  like  to  see. 

BENTLEY.  Pll  explain  it  later — to-morrow. 
Can't  this  morning:  Sir  Hector  should  be  here 
pretty  soon  now. 

VYSON.  Pll  just  put  this  away.  [Flourishes  his 
hat,  goes  out,  and  returns.  He  is  very  affable. 
From  time  to  time  he  slips  his  left  hand  into  the 
right  inside  pocket  of  his  coaty  and  each  time  he 
withdraws  it  his  affability  increases.  He  pulls  up 
a  chair  by  BENTLEY,  whom  he  finds  examining  the 
broken  watch.  ]  Hello ! 

BENTLEY.    Fell  out  of  my  pocket  this  morning. 

VYSON  [glancing  at  clock}.  Five  minutes  in 
which  to  get  one  of  these  done  before 

BENTLEY  [suddenly  leaning  back}.  I  feel 
rather  shaken  j  pitched  out  of  a  dog-cart  on  the 
hill.  That's  how  I  broke  my  watch. 

VYSON.  What  a  pity!  [He  rises.]  Curious,  I 
don't  feel  like  work  either.  And  yet  I  did  two 
minutes  ago.  Curious.  Something  in  the  air. 

BENTLEY.    Nonsense.    What  are  you  afraid  of? 

VYSON  [airily].  Oh,  one  just  is  at  times.  And 
Sir  Hector's  enough  to  break  any  man's  nerve. 

BENTLEY  [shortly].  I  don't  think  so.  Stand 
up  to  him. 

VYSON.  Pve  never  stood  up  to  anyone.  It's  not 
in  me.  I  get  rushed. 

BENTLEY.  The  worse  for  you.  Well,  we  shall 
have  to  wait.  [He  settles  grimly  down  into  the 
arms  of  his  chair.  Short  silence.} 

VYSON.  Box  ready,  I  see.  [BENTLEY  nods.  A 

29 


GUILTY     SOULS 

longer  pause  follows,  during  which  BENTLEY, 
taking  care  not  to  attract  VYSON'S  attention,  turns 
the  face  of  the  clock  away  towards  the  room. 
VYSON  suddenly  rises.]  I  shan't  stop  if  he  doesn't 
come  soon.  I've  got  lots  to  do  this  morning. 
Want  to  take  this  afternoon  off,  if  I  may.  If  you 
don't  see  me  after  luncheon 

BENTLEY.  Afternoon  off.  Certainly.  But  not 
before  lunch.  You  had  two  days  off  in  London 
at  the  end  of  last  week. 

VYSON.    I  want  to  go  to  my  room  and  work. 

BENTLEY.  Wait  in  here  five  more  minutes.  Sir 
Hector  should  be  in  any  minute  now.  You  know 
how  crotchety  he  is.  Likes  to  have  people  waiting 
ready. 

VYSON  {with  a  glance  at  his  wrist-watch,  sud- 
denly agitated}.  No.  No.  I  must  go.  Very 
pressing. 

BENTLEY  [rising  too}.  No.  You  shall  not.  I 
insist.  [Change  of  tone.}  Now,  for  my  sake — I 
insist.  [He  advances  towards  VYSON. 

VYSON.  Well,  if  you  put  it  that  way.  Three 
minutes.  [And  they  settle  down  again,  VYSON 
counting  out  the  time  on  his  wrist-watch  in  such  a 
way  that  BENTLEY  cannot  see  him  do  so,  and 
BENTLEY  watching  VYSON  with  a  covert  but  ter- 
rific glare.  Pause  .  .  .]  Time's  up! 

BENTLEY.    No. 

[Standing,  they  face  each  other.     The  tele- 
phone rings. 

VYSON    [instantly}.     He's  not  coming — thank 
heaven. 
30 


ACT     ONE 

[He  steps  for  the  door — BENTLEY  steps  in 
front  of  Mm.] 

BENTLEY.  Will  you  take  the  box  back  at  once? 
No — [nodding  at  the  telephone] — just  see  what 
he  wants,  will  you? 

VYSON  [at  the  telephone}.  Hello.  Vyson 
speaking.  Lois  Forester?  [To  Bentley}.  Some 
relation  of  yours,  Bentley — says  she's  missed  your 
wife  at  the  station,  and  wants  to  know  may  she 
come  here. 

BENTLEY.    Relation?    Come  here?    What 

VYSON  [in  haste}.  Oh,  yes.  He  says  yes. 
There!  [Cuts  off.}  Now  I  must  go. 

BENTLEY.    She  can't  come  here.    Sir  Hector — 

[VYSON  is  making  for  the  door  to  the  right , 

but  before  he  reaches  it  it  opens  in  his 

face  and  SIR  HECTOR  enters  abruptly.} 

SIR  HECTOR.  Who  the  devil! — running  into 
me!  Ah,  Vyson.  Good  mornin',  Mister  Vyson. 
I  rang:  no  answer.  So  in  I  walked. 

VYSON.  The  telephone!  they  must  have 
thought 

SIR  HECTOR  [over  his  shoulder].  Come  in, 
Rupert.  Don't  hang  about.  [RUPERT  stands  in 
the  doorway.  BENTLEY,  very  tauty  advances.  SIR 
HECTOR  treats  him  with  noticeably  more  courtesy 
than  he  uses  toward  VYSON.]  Mornin',  Bentley. 

BENTLEY.  Good  morning,  Sir  Hector.  Leg 
better,  I  trust.  I  hear  you  had  a  fall. 

SIR  HECTOR.  Had  a  fall!  Worst  damn  toss 
I  ever  took.  That's  why  I'm  here.  Tell  you  in  a 
minute.  Where's  my  son?  [Turns  round.} 

31 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

Here,  Rupert — you've  met  Bentley  and  this  other 
chap — whatVhis-name  ?  — Vyson,  before. 

[RUPERT,  a  contrast  to  his  hard- featured) 
foxy-eyedy  thin  groom  of  a  father,  is  a 
fresh-looking,  thoughtful,  shy  youth  of 
twenty. 

RUPERT.  How  d'you  do,  Mr.  Vyson?  How 
d'you  do,  Mr.  Bentley?  [To  VYSON.]  You  play 
the  violin,  don't  you?  I  saw  you  in  the  street 
carrying  a  case. 

VYSON.  Yes,  yes,  I  do.  [Turning  to  SIR 
HECTOR.]  Pm  sorry,  Sir  Hector,  I  must  go. 

SIR  HECTOR  [who  has  seated  himself  at  the 
table,  says  dryly].  Go!  You  can't. 

VYSON.     I'm  sorry,  sir,  I 

[SiR  HECTOR  turns  an  eye  on  BENTLEY. 

BENTLEY.    Really,  I 

[He  looks  distressfully  at  VYSON. 

VYSON.    But 

SIR  HECTOR  [jumps  up  and  snaps}.  You  hear 
what  your  partner  says?  [VYSON  reluctantly  sits 
down.  They  are  now  grouped,  with  SIR  HECTOR 
reseated  at  the  middle  of  the  table,  having  BENT- 
LEY  and  VYSON  at  opposite  ends,  BENTLEY  being 
between  VYSON  and  the  door.  RUPERT  stands  be- 
tween BENTLEY  and  SIR  HECTOR.]  What  about 
your  clerk?  He  may  be  useful.  Nothing  confi- 
dential to-day.  [He  sniggers  rather  grimly. 
BENTLEY.  Certainly. 

[He  rises,  touches  the  bell,  and  sits  down  again. 
SIR  HECTOR.     Good.     Now  I'll  take  off  my 
gloves.     [Does  so,  and  collects  the  eyes  of  BENT- 
32 


ACT     ONE 

LEY  and  VYSON.  ]  Doubtless  you  wonder  what  the 
devil  I  want  here.  Pm  not  often  in,  eh?  Well, 
now  Pll  tell  you — Pve  come  to  cheat  somebody. 
Ha!  ha!  {Rubs  his  hands  and,  warming  to  his 
work,  speaks  in  a  fasty  clear  gabble.]  Mr.  Bent- 
ley  and  Mr.  er — Vyson,  Pm  not  as  young  as  I  was, 
and  what  with  pettifoggin'  politicians  deliberately 
bankruptin'  the  class  that  is  the  backbone  of  the 
nation  j  [JoE  enters  from  the  left,  and  at  a  sign 
from  BENTLEY  takes  up  a  position  standing  be- 
tween VYSON  and  SIR  HECTOR]  what  with  the 
people  carryin'  on  as  if  the  Realm  belonged  to  'em 
and  the  Church  as  far  as  I  can  make  out  with  its 
damned  socialist  parsons  backing  'em  up,  what  with 
virgins  fresh  from  school  trottin'  out  the  statistics 
of  prostitooshun  at  you,  wives  takin'  an  interest  in 
politics,  and  grooms  answ'rin'  you  back,  Pve  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  my  day  is  done.  [He  looks 
round,  hoping  for  contradiction.  ]  I  won't  be  dic- 
tated to — they  can  dictate  to  another  if  they  like 
— my  son  here  seems  to  like  Jem,  they  can  dictate 
to  him — but  Pll  go  on  huntin'  and,  if  need  be, 
break  my  neck  like  a  gentleman 

BENTLEY.    You  wish  to 

SIR  HECTOR.  Be  so  good  as  to  let  me  have  me 
say  out,  Mister  Bentley.  Then  there's  death 
duties.  I  never  heard  the  like.  Disgracefu'.  I 
never  liked  Mr.  Gladstone,  but  I  will  say  this: 
he  opposed — Mr.  Vyson,  you're  not  listenin' — 
kindly  pay  attention  to  me:  that's  what  you're 
here  for,  that's  what  I  pay  you  for.  Thank  you. 
As  I  was  savin' — these  iniquitous  Death  Duties. 

33 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

Well,  Pll  avoid  'em.    I'll  cheat  the  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer,  I  will [He  rises  excitedly. 

BENTLEY.    You  wish  to  make  over 

SIR  HECTOR.  Not  all  at  once.  Noa.  Noa. 
You  don't  catch  me.  [He  sits  down.]  I  want  to 
see  if  this  young  man  [nodding  back  at  his  son] 
is  as  big  a  fool  as  he  looks  and  talks.  There  should 
be  a  pretty  sort  oj  sum  locked  up  in  this  box.  [He 
raps  it.]  Pll  make  over  the  contents.  Then  if  I 
break  my  neck  out  huntin'  the  farther  side  of  seven 
years  from  now  the  Chancellor  won't  get  a  penny 
out  of  this  little  chest.  The  young  chap  shall  have 
some  of  it  for  the  scientific  business  methods  he 
yammers  about.  He's  by  way  of  bein'  a  geologist: 
goes  about  with  a  little  hammer,  and  is  for  ever 
talkin'  of  oil  as  the  fuel  of  the  future  or  some 
bunkum  o'  that  sort.  Very  well.  First,  we'll  see 
what  we've  got.  You've  a  list,  Bentley.  Pve  a 
list.  [Pulls  a  list  out  oj  his  -pocket.}  Mr.  Vyson 
shall  read  out  the  contents.  We'll  check  the  con- 
tents, and  when  that's  over  Mr.  Bentley  shall  ad- 
vise me  what  to  sell  and  what  to  convert.  Now 
we'll  get  to  it.  Sit  down,  Mr.  Vyson.  You're 
wanted  to  read  out  the  contents.  You  can't  go. 
[VYSON,  who  had  half  risen,  sits  down  again;  SIR 
HECTOR  collects  the  eyes,  as  before.}  Ah,  the 
key.  [Feeling  in  his  pockets.}  Damn,  Pm  losing 
my  memory  or  something.  Got  the  list,  but  for- 
gotten my  key. 

BENTLEY.    Get  our  key,  Joe. 

VYSON.    Let  me. 

[He  rises  and  gets  the  key,  closely  watched 
34 


ACT     ONE 

by  JOE,  and  is  about  to  make  for  the  door 
when  he  thinks  better  of  it  under  the 
severe  eye  of  SIR  HECTOR  and  resumes 
his  seat. 
SIR  HECTOR.     Now. 

[  Throws  open  the  lid  and  leans  back,  pencil 

in  one  hand  and  list  in  the  other. 
BENTLEY  [leaning  forward}.     Now. 

[JoE,  covertly  watching  VYSON,  clears  his 

throat. 
SIR  HECTOR.    Wake  up,  Mr.  Vyson. 

[VYSON    takes   up   the   first   package   and 
scrutinizes  the  writing. 

VYSON   [reading}.     Consolidated  Turkish 

BENTLEY.    Right.     [Ticks  his  list.} 
SIR  HECTOR.     Right. 

VYSON    [as  before}.     Mortgages  on  Leeson's 
Refineries. 

BENTLEY.    Right.    They  will  nave  to  be  called 
in,  Sir  Hector.    Let's  see  the  date.    Yes. 

SIR  HECTOR.    Very  well,  and  the  proceeds  will 
be  worth  damn  little,  anyway.    Go  on,  Mr.  Vyson. 
VYSON.     Royal  Steam.     [They  nod  and  tick.} 
British  Honduras  and  Venezuelan  together. 
SIR  HECTOR.    Right. 
BENTLEY.     Right. 
VYSON.    Patent  Hydraulic. 
SIR  HECTOR.     Right. 
BENTLEY  [after  a  pause}.     Right. 
VYSON.     Eugenia  Cotton  Mills. 
SIR  HECTOR  [promptly}.    Right.    Well,  Bent- 
ley,  you're  gettin*  slow.     [Bending  over  to  show 

35 


[Crisply] 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

BENTLEY  the  -place,  having  his  joke.}    Brrr,  Bent- 
ley — -booze?     Your  hand's  shaking. 

BENTLEY  [coldly}.  I  was  pitched  out  of  a  trap 
this  morning. 

SIR  HECTOR.    Sorry.    Shall  we  stop? 

[VYSON  rises. 

BENTLEY  [perceiving  VYSON'S  hands  clenched 
and  a  look  of  bitter  exasperation  on  his  face} .  No, 
thanks.  We'll  go  in  and  make  an  end  now. 

[VYSON  relapses  into  his  seat. 

SIR  HECTOR  [briskly  cheerful}.     Now,  Vyson. 

VYSON.     Premier  Ironstone. 

BENTLEY.    Right. 

SIR  HECTOR.    Right. 

VYSON.     River  Navigation. 

BENTLEY.    Right. 

SIR  HECTOR.    Right. 

VYSON.    CowdelPs  Ironware. 

BENTLEY  [nervously}.    Right. 

SIR  HECTOR  [pausing}.  When  are  we  coming 
to  the  big  block?  I've  only  three  left  on  my  list. 
How  much  more  in  the  box?  [VYSON  looks.  To 
BENTLEY.]  CowdelPs  Ironware,  did  he  say? 
Right.  [To  VYSON.]  Yes? 

VYSON.  There's  only  one  more,  sir — unless  all 
three  are  in  one  package.  [Opens  package.} 
Merioneth  Lower  Deep. 

BENTLEY.    Right.    [To  SIR  HECTOR.]    Right? 

SIR  HECTOR.  Merioneth  Lower  Deep.  What 
the !  Right. 

VYSON  [briefly}.  That's  all.  [Shuts  the  box 
and  rises.}  Now,  if  you  will  allow  me,  Sir  Hec- 
36 


ACT     ONE 

tor.  [Holds  out  his  hand. 

SIR  HECTOR  [staring  at  VYSON].  What's  this? 
[Staring  at  his  list.}  I've  got  two  more.  Japan- 
ese Government  Bearer  Bonds  marked  "  Ko-go," 
Nos.  560,080  to  560,420,  and  Red  Valley  Bearer 
Bonds  Nos.  160  to  180.  You've  got  'em  on  your 
list,  haven't  you,  Bentley? 

BENTLEY.     Certainly. 

SIR  HECTOR.    That's  odd. 

BENTLEY.    Vyson,  look  again. 

VYSON.    The  box  is  empty,  I  tell  you. 

SIR  HECTOR.  This  is  serious.  [To  BENTLEY.] 
The  box  came  straight  from  the  bank? 

BENTLEY.    Joe 

JOE  [step-ping  forward  into  the  circle ,  for  all 
three  have  risen].  Yes,  sir.  I  brought  the  box 
over  last  night,  and  it's  lain  in  this  room  ever  since. 

SIR  HECTOR.    Did  you  open  it? 

[JoE  looks  at  VYSON. 

JOE.  I  didn't  touch  the  box.  Mr.  Vyson  knows 
more  about  the  box  than  I  do. 

SIR  HECTOR  [losing  his  temper}.  What  the 
hell  d'you  mean?  [He  seizes  JOE  by  the  shoulder. 

RUPERT  [intervening}.  One  moment.  The 
documents  are  probably  somewhere  about.  [To 
JOE.]  Now,  think  where  they  are.  [Taking  his 
father  aside.}  Leave  it  to  me.  If  I  don't  find  the 
money  it's  I  who  lose  it.  I'll  deal  with  that  clerk. 
Go  and  talk  to  Bentley — he  looks  terribly  cut  up. 
[SiR  HECTOR  goes  over  to  BENTLEY.  RUPERT 
takes  JOE  by  the  elbow  and  says  softly.}  Now, 
quick,  what  d'you  know? 

37 


GUILTY     SOULS 

JOE  [softly].  Fetch  the  bank  manager.  I'll 
fix  him  in  a  minute. 

RUPERT.    Whom? 

JOE.    Vyson.     It's  him. 

RUPERT.    What!     Mind  what  you  say. 

[The  others  begin  to  search  the  room. 

JOE.  Let  me  speak  to  your  father  in  the  next 
room.  Meanwhile  you  telephone  to  Smithson's 
Bank:  Wentworth  is  the  name  of  the  man  you 
want.  [RUPERT  nods. 

RUPERT.  Er —  Father.  [SiR  HECTOR  comes 
over.}  Just  a  moment.  [Softly.]  The  clerk 
here  wishes  to  speak  alone  with  you.  [Aloud,  his 
eye  on  VYSON.]  I  think  it's  a  confession. 

BENTLEY  [rushes  forward,  crying] .  It  can't  be. 
Joe's  been  here  thirty  years.  I  know  he's  honest. 

RUPERT  [coolly].  We  shall  see.  There's  a 
room  across  the  passage. 

BENTLEY.    But 

[Meeting  JOE'S  eye,  his  'protest  dies  away 
and  the  tail  of  his  eye  swings  round  to 
where  VYSON  stands  in  an  attitude  of 
barely  controlled  impatience. 

JOE  [to  BENTLEY]  .  I'll  clear  myself,  sir,  never 
fear.  [To  RUPERT.]  Mr.  Vyson's  room. 

SIR  HECTOR  [going  to  BENTLEY]  .  I  thought  so. 
The  lower  classes  nowadays  are  all  hypocrites  and 
thieves.  [To  RUPERT.]  You're  coming,  Rupert? 

RUPERT.    No,  he  asks  for  you  alone. 

SIR  HECTOR.  Well,  that's  pluck  if  it  doesn't 
mean  he's  goin'  to  whine.  I  hate  whinin'. 

[He  goes  out  with  JOE. 
38 


ACT     ONE 

RUPERT.  Now,  Bentley?  Nothing  found? 
Quite  so.  [Pause.].  I  do  dislike  rows.  How- 
ever, I  expect  it'll  be  cleared  up  in  a  minute. 

[  Takes  up  the  telephone  book. 

BENTLEY  [looking  at  VYSON  with  an  effort]. 
I'm  sorry  for  poor  Joe.  I  find  it  hard  to  believe 
.  .  .  [RUPERT  goes  to  the  telephone.]  Not  for 
the  police?  Not  yet,  surely? 

VYSON  [to  BENTLEY,  in  a  low  voice].  For 
heaven's  sake,  don't  get  them  in  or  I  shall  be  here 
for  ever.  [RUPERT,  overhearing,  glances  at  him. 

RUPERT.  No,  for  the  bank  manager.  Hello. 
Give  me  Hinkson  nine  five.  Yes.  Quick. 

VYSON.    I  say,  Bentley,  you  had 

BENTLEY  [like  a  knife].  Ssh! — he's  telephon- 
ing. 

RUPERT.  Hinkson  nine  five.  Mr.  Wentworth, 
please. 

VYSON.    But [RUPERT  gestures. 

RUPERT.  Is  that  you,  Mr.  Wentworth?  Ru- 
pert Adderly  speaking.  Vice-Manager?  No,  I 
must  have  Wentworth.  Quick. 

VYSON.  But,  Bentley,  you  had  that  [nodding  at 
box]  over  a  week  ago  when  we  settled  to  speculate. 

BENTLEY.     I  know.     Sssss!     Solicitors  don't — 

RUPERT.  Hello.  Are  you  there?  Is  that 
Wentworth? 

VYSON.    But  you  had  the  thing. 

BENTLEY.  Of  course  I  did.  Do  you  suspect 
me?  [Behind  his  hand.]  Joe  is  done  for.  Don't 
ruin  the  firm.  [Nodding  at  RUPERT.]  There! 

RUPERT.     Ah,  is  that  you,  Mr.  Wentworth? 

39 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

Rupert  Adderly  speaking.  Pm  at  Bentley  and 
Vyson's  with  my  father.  Yes,  with  my  father. 
Will  you  please  step  across?  Yes.  Now.  Step 
straight  in.  First  door  on  right.  Yes,  at  once. 
Vital.  [Replacing  receiver.]  There! 

[JoE  and  SIR  HECTOR  return.     SIR  HEC- 
TOR'S face  is  flushed.    There  is  a  light  in 
his  eyes.    He  keeps  on  smacking  his  lips. 
SIR  HECTOR  [placing  his  hand  on  JOE'S  shoul- 
der} .    Now  we  shall  get  at  it,  I  think. 

[Glares  round  on  each  in  turn,  finally  fixing 

VYSON  with  a  surly  stare. 

RUPERT  [to  his  father.}     He's  coming.    He'll 
be  here  in  a  moment. 

SIR  HECTOR.    Good  thing  too.    I  intend  to  sift 
this  to  the  bottom. 

[He  resumes  his  glare  at  VYSON.  VYSON 
turns  away  toward  the  light.  SIR  HEC- 
TOR looks  at  BENTLEY  as  much  as  to  say 
"  You'll  see  what  you'll  see !  "  BENT- 
LEY  stands  stilly  feet  wide  apart,  hands 
behind  back,  looking  at  the  ground. 
RUPERT  fidgets.  JOE  watches  VYSON. 
VYSON  has  slipped  his  hand  into  his  coatys 
inner  pocket  as  if  he  were  fingering  and 
guarding  a  treasure.  He  moves  up  his 
wrist,  stares  at  his  watch,  and  moves  his 
lips  as  if  he  were  praying.  Silence. 
JOE  [whispering  to  RUPERT].  He's  clutching 
something  in  his  pocket.  Poison? 

RUPERT  [on  tip-toe,  shaking  his  head}.     Ssh. 
No,  no. 
40 


ACT     ONE 

[The  door  is  briskly  opened  and  the  bank 
manager,  WENTWORTH,  a  sharpy  dap- 
per, stocky  little  man  steps  in. 

WENTWORTH.  Morning,  Sir  Hector.  [SiR 
HECTOR  grunts.}  Morning,  gentlemen — what 
can  I  do  for  you? 

SIR  HECTOR  [lifting  box}.  Know  anythin' 
about  this  box  o'  mine? 

WENTWORTH.     Mr.  Park  here 

BENTLEY  [explaining}.     Joe,  Sir  Hector. 

WENTWORTH.  Mr.  Park  came  over  for  it  last 
night. 

SIR  HECTOR.    Anybody  else  had  it  lately? 

WENTWORTH.  Mr.  Vyson  took  it  a  week  ago. 
Said  the  firm  wanted  it. 

JOE.    There. 

VYSON.    Let  me  explain. 

SIR  HECTOR.  You  can  make  your  explanation 
later.  Let's  have  the  other  man's  story  first. 

VYSON  [lamely} .    I — Mr.  Bentley  told  me 

[SiR  HECTOR  looks  at  BENTLEY. 

BENTLEY.  All  right,  Paul.  [To  WENTWORTH.] 
Go  on. 

WENTWORTH.  I  gave  it  him.  I  hold  his  re- 
ceipt for  it.  He  returned  it  the  same  morning — 
in  about  three  quarters  of  an  hour,  I  should  judge 
— with  the  firm's  box  which  he  had  taken  out  at 
the  same  time. 

SIR  HECTOR.    What  more? 

WENTWORTH.  There  isn't  any  more.  [Si- 
lence.} Why,  is  there  anything  wrong?  Is  any- 
thing missing? 

41 


GUILTY     SOULS 

SIR  HECTOR.    Yes,  there  is. 

RUPERT.    We  think  there  is,  Father. 

WENTWORTH.  I'm  sure  the  bank  will  welcome 
the  fullest  investigation.  I  should  like  to  say  that 
the  bank  has  no  knowledge  whatever  of  what  such 
a  box  may  contain. 

BENTLEY.  I  gave  the  order  for  Sir  Hector's  box 
to  be  brought  over — as  Mr.  Vyson  remarked  just 
now.  I  wished  to  find  out  if  any  mortgage  needed 
calling  in — as  indeed  we  discovered  one  lot  did. 
I  was  out  when  Mr.  Vyson  brought  the  box  back. 
I  came  into  this  room 

JOE  [excitedly].  But  I  wasn't.  I  saw  Mr.  Vyson. 

RUPERT  [to  JOE].  One  moment.  Let  Mr. 
Bentley  finish.  You  shall  tell  us  all  you  know  in  a 
minute. 

BENTLEY.  I  came  into  this  room  and  found 
Mr.  Vyson  waiting,  with  Sir  Hector's  box  open. 
Oh,  and  also  the  firm's  box  [looking  at  VYSON]. 
We  had  a  little  conversation  in  which  we  joked 
about  the  weight  of  Sir  Hector's  box. 

RUPERT  [cutting  in].  I  see  it  all.  It's  quite 
simple.  Whoever  handled  the  documents  in  our 
box  must  have  replaced  them  in  the  firm's  by  mis- 
take: the  boxes  would  be  alike  except  for  the 
name  on  the  outside. 

WENTWORTH.  It  is  worth  trying.  [Lifts  tele- 
phone.] Hinkson  nine  five.  Hello.  That  you, 
Mr.  Jenning?  Wentworth  speaking.  Send  a  man 
over  at  once  with  Bentley  and  Vyson's  box  to  the 
firm's  office — first  door  on  right.  Tell  him  to  run. 

[Cuts  off. 
42 


ACT     ONE 

RUPERT.  I  expect  that's  it.  [To  WENT- 
WORTH.]  Thank  you. 

WENTWORTH.     Shall  I  stay,  gentlemen? 

SIR  HECTOR.  Most  certainly  you  will.  Pm 
not  at  all  of  my  son's  mind.  Bentley,  you  were 
sayin'? 

BENTLEY.  We  were  joking  about  the  weight  of 
Sir  Hector's  box.  We  chatted  a  minute  or  two  and 
then  Mr.  Vyson  went  to  his  room  and  I  ran  for 
Joe. 

JOE  [excited  again,  to  BENTLEY].  You  asked 
me  whether  anybody  had  been  in  and  I  said  no- 
body but  Mr.  Vyson,  and  then  I  tried  to  tell  you 
what  I'd  seen.  [  Turning  to  the  others.  ]  But  be- 
fore I'd  got  out  more  than  a  sentence  Mr.  Oswald 
told  me  I'd  got  Mr.  Vyson  on  the  brain.  Well, 
he'll  have  to  believe  me  now  after  what  I  saw  and 
those  bonds  being  missing. 

BENTLEY  [calmly,  with  a  friendly  glance  at 
VYSON]  .  Well,  and  what  did  you  see?  Let's  hear 
the  worst. 

JOE  [elaborately}.  I'd  'ad  my  eye  on  Vyson 
some  time. 

VYSON.    Bah ! 

BENTLEY.     Mister  Vyson,  please,  Joe. 

JOE.  I'd  heard  him  say  things.  Why,  that  very 
morning,  happening  to  come  in  when  he  was  talk- 
ing with  Mr.  Oswald,  I  heard  him  cursing  my  old 
master,  his  grandad,  for  putting  him  into  this  job. 
Business  and  business  men — not  good  enough  for 
him,  I  suppose!  But  when  I  gets  into  the  room 
what  do  I  see  but  Mr.  Vyson  standing  in  front  of 

43 


GUI LT Y     SOULS 

the  two  boxes  with  a  most  wicked  expression. 
When  he  sees  me  he  starts  and  puts  a  bit  o'  paper 
face  down  on  the  table,  but  it  slips  off  and  he  tries 
to  pick  it  up  so  as  I  shan't  see.  But  I  got  it  and 
sees  it  is  Sir  Hector's  list.  Then  Mr.  Vyson  hur- 
ries out  to  hang  up  his  hat,  or  so  he  says.  [Bang- 
ing the  table.]  Now  I  says  roundly,  and  I  don't 
care  who  hears  me — Mr.  Vyson  had  those  bearer 
bonds  in  his  pocket  when  he  went  to  hang  up  his 
hat.  [BENTLEY  looks  very  serious. 
VYSON.  It's  a  lie.  I  never  did  such  a  thing. 
Bentley — you  don't  believe  that.  You  can't,  be- 
cause  

[He  suddenly  stops  shorty  for  BENTLEY,  as 
if  unconsciously  y  has  made  the  gesture  of 
moving  -papers  from  one  box  to  another 
and  now  stands  -pondering  and  slowly 
shaking  his  head. 

BENTLEY  [looking  up].  Of  course  not,  Paul. 
But  we  must  sift  this.  Someone  here  is  lying. 

[He  gazes  significantly  at  JOE.     The  look  is 

not  lost  on  VYSON. 

RUPERT.  It  strikes  me  that  if  Mr.  Vyson  had 
taken  the  securities  he  would  have  had  to  chance 
Mr.  Bentley  going  through  the  list  and  finding 
them  gone. 

VYSON  [too  emphatic].  Of  course.  [To  SIR 
HECTOR.]  You  see,  it's  absurd. 

[SiR  HECTOR  turns  his  back  on  him. 
JOE  [bursting  out].    But  Mr.  Vyson  didn't  do 
that.    He  must  have  taken  the  box  away.    There 
44 


ACT     ONE 

was  only  one  box — the  firm's — when  Mr.  Bentley 
rang  for  me. 

VYSON.    But  I  left  Bentley  with  both  boxes. 

JOE.  You  liar!  [Turning  to  SIR  HECTOR.] 
Listen  to  him!  Shuffling! 

BENTLEY  [quickly  and  softly  to  VYSON].  A 
little  more  rope. 

JOE  [beside  himself}.  Two  boxes.  So  you 
say!  I  saw  you  going  away  with  both  boxes  a  few 
minutes  later. 

RUPERT.     How  did  that  happen? 

JOE.  Mr.  Bentley  rang  for  me  to  pull  the  blind 
down — it  had  stuck,  as  it  sometimes  does.  [Point- 
ing. ]  That  blind  there.  As  I  was  pulling  it  down 
I  saw  Mr.  Vyson  go  out  with  both  boxes. 

[A  rap  on  the  door. 

WENTWORTH.  Allow  me.  That's  the  firm's 
box.  [He  goes  to  the  door  and  takes  the  box.  To 
a  man  outside. \  Thank  you. 

BENTLEY.  You  open  it,  Mr.  Adderly.  Here's 
the  key. 

[  Takes  the  key  from  the  drawer  in  the  desk. 

VYSON  [to  BENTLEY,  as  they  bend  over  the 
box}.  Can't  I  get  away?  This  will  mean  giving 
evidence.  I  mean — I  simply  must  go. 

BENTLEY  [eyeing  him  closely}.  If  you  don't 
want  to  stay  your  only  chance  is  to  keep  quiet. 

RUPERT.    No  sign  of  the  securities  here 

SIR  HECTOR.  Absurd  waste  of  time.  Now  I 
suppose  you're  satisfied,  Rupert,  that  it  wasn't  a 
curious  accident. 

45 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

WENTWORTH  [loudly}.  All  this  is  very  well, 
gentlemen — all  this  talk  of  that  box  and  this  box. 
What  we  want  to  know  is,  where  are  the  bonds 
now?  Now,  what  exactly  were  these  bearer  bonds? 

SIR  HECTOR.  That's  the  talk.  That's  a  better 
line.  The  bonds  were  [taking  the  list  from  RU- 
PERT] Japanese  Government  Bearer  Bonds  marked 
"Ko-go"  Nos.  560,080  to  560,420,  and  Red 
Valley  Bearer  Bonds  Nos.  160  to  180. 

WENTWORTH.  That's  simple  enough.  I  know 
where  they  are.  Mr.  Vyson  brought  them  to  sell 
through  our  brokers  late  last  Tuesday  morning — 
when  he  brought  the  boxes  back,  in  fact. 

[BENTLEY  turns  away. 

SIR  HECTOR.    What!  1        ro-      ?  7 

-D  T        ,  [simultaneously. 

RUPERT.     1  say!  J 

JOE  [crowing].    I  told  you  so. 

VYSON  [recklessly].  Yes,  I  did.  Mr.  Bentley 
told  me  to!  In  the  name  of  the  firm.  I  can  ex- 
plain it  all.  [BENTLEY  looks  at  him. 

WENTWORTH  [dryly].  Aren't  you  rather  late 
in  telling  us  this,  Mr.  Vyson?  Have  you  forgotten 
how  you  came  to  me  the  very  afternoon  before 
this  — er  loss:  Monday  afternoon,  in  fact,  and 
tried  and  tried,  almost  with  tears  in  your  eyes,  to 
raise  £140  on  some  worthless  copper  shares?  Now 
I  note  that  for  one  of  the  blocks  of  missing  bonds 
I  gave  you  just  under  one  hundred  and  fifty. 

SIR  HECTOR  [advancing  on  VYSON].  What's 
this?  What's  this?  Explain. 

VYSON.    I Bentley 

46 


ACT    ONE 

SIR  HECTOR  [towering}.  Tries  to  borrow  off 
the  bank,  and  then  runs  off  with  my  money! 

RUPERT.  By  George,  it  looks  bad.  Steady, 
father.  What  d'you  say  to  that,  Vyson? 

VYSON  [beginning  utterly  to  lose  his  head}.  I 
gave  the  four  thousand  to  Bentley. 

RUPERT.  Never  mind  the  four  thousand  at 
present.  What  did  you  do  with  that  hundred  and 
fifty  we've  traced? 

VYSON.  I  kept  it.  Mr.  Bentley  told  me  to. 
[Becoming  hysterical.}  It's  all  so  simple.  That's 
the  truth,  can't  you  see  it's  the  truth? 

[Glances  towards  the  door. 

SIR  HECTOR.  Oh,  so  you  want  to  go,  do  you? 
Very  curious — you've  played  that  tune  ever  since 
I  came.  [Losing  his  temper.}  Where  are  my 
four  thousand  pounds?  They  were  last  seen  in 
your  hands.  You  acknowledge  stealin'  a  hundred 
and  fifty  and  you  attempt  to  blacken  your  partner 
at  the  same  time. 

VYSON  [wildly}.  I  never  even  looked  at  what 
I  gave  the  bank  manager.  He  was  just  going  to 
lunch.  I  was  so  excited.  I  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing else. 

WENTWORTH.  That's  so.  I  said,  "  What  are 
these?  "  He  said,  "  I  don't  know:  Bentley  told 
me  the  firm  wants  to  raise  money  on  them  at  once 
for  a  client."  All  the  time  he  was  dancing  round 
the  room  and  looking  at  the  map  of  South 
America  on  the  wall.  [BENTLEY  makes  an  in- 
voluntary sign  of  having  guessed  something.} 

47 


When  I  spoke  to  him  of  dropping  a  bit  on  the 
transaction  he  said — which  struck  me  as  odd, 
"  Never  mind,  I  shall  get  my  money."  "  I," 
mind  you. 

SIR  HECTOR.  That's  done  it.  And  now  you 
want  to  do  a  bolt.  Embezzlement,  and  then  flight. 
I'll  teach  you. 

[He  brandishes  his  fists  in  VYSON'S  face. 
RUPERT.    Father. 

VYSON.    Don't  let  him  touch  me.    I  can't  stand 

it.    Ah!  [He  moves  round  the  table. 

SIR  HECTOR  [breaking   away   from   his   son's 

restraining  arm].    He  knows  he  cornered.     He's 

tryin'  to  get  away.     [SiR  HECTOR  grabs  at  VYSON. 

VYSON.     I  can  stand  no  more! 

[He  runs  for  the  door. 

JOE.    Stop  thief !     [VYSON  snatches  at  the  door. 
BENTLEY  [to  RUPERT,  as  both  turn}.     South 
America! 

[In   the   doorway   VYSON   runs   into   Lois 
FORSTER.     The  second's  delay  is  fatal. 
SIR  HECTOR  drags  him  back. 
SIR  HECTOR.     I've  got  you.     [He  cuffs  him.] 
I'll  teach  you.     Damn  this  leg,  or  you  wouldn't 
V  got  so  far. 

VYSON.    Hands  off!     Stop,  or  I'll  kill  you! 

[VYSON  struggles. 

SIR  HECTOR.  Hysterical  puppy.  [Twists  his 
arm.]  You'll  break  it. 

RUPERT  [to  VYSON]  .  Don't  struggle.  [ To  SIR 
HECTOR.]  Let  go,  father. 

[SiR  HECTOR  lets  him  go. 
48 


ACT     ONE 

VYSON  [faces  round  and  meets  the  eyes  of  Lois 
looking  at  him}.  I  wish  I  were  dead! 

Lois  [who  has  stooped  and  -picked  a  packet  of 
the  floor,  speaking  very  gently].  I  think  you 
dropped  something. 

[VYSON  quickly  takes  the  packet  and  puts  it 

in  his  inside  pocket. 

SIR  HECTOR  [ staring  at  Lois] .  Who  the  deviPs 
this? 

BENTLEY.     Lois — would  you  wait  a  moment? 
Lois.    I'm  sorry.    Clara  must  have  gone  to  the 
Great  Eastern.     I  was  waiting  in  the  passage.     I 
didn't  like  .  .  .  shall  I  go? 

BENTLEY.  A  few  minutes  .  .  .  there's  a  room 
just  opposite. 

[Lois  goes  out  after  a  glance  at  RUPERT  and 

a  long  look  of  compassion  at  VYSON. 
SIR  HECTOR.    We  wish  to  see  what  fell  from 
your  pocket. 

VYSON.     You  have  no  right. 
SIR  HECTOR.    We — I — mean  to  have  it.    Now 
then.  [He  steps  forward. 

VYSON  [suddenly  hysterical}.  You  shall  not 
have  it.  Pd  die  rather.  Don't  touch  me :  I'll  kill 
myself. 

[He  clutches  himself,  and  stands  away  with 

bared  teeth. 

RUPERT  {gently] .  Come,  Vyson,  do  see  reason. 
I  know  things  are  against  you,  but  don't  be  hys- 
terical. [Persuasively.}  Give  it  up!  If  you 
don't  they'll  think  it's  something  guilty,  if  it's 
nothing  we  shall  see  it's  nothing. 

49 


GUILTY     SOULS 

VYSON  [pulling  out  the  jacket  and,  throwing  it 
on  the  floor  with  a  jerk} .  There,  take  it — and  my 
life  and  my  liberty  and  my  hope  with  it.  [He 
turns  away.}  I've  nothing  left  now. 

[JoE  dives  for  it.    RUPERT  and  SIR  HECTOR 
crowd  round  JOE.   The  packet  is  divided. 
SIR  HECTOR.    Hello.     Foreign  writin'.    Let's 
see. 

RUPERT  [unfolding}.    A  passport. 

[BENTLEY,  leaning  over  their  shoulders y 
rubs  his  chin  thoughtfully.  Then  he 
turns  away  and  listensy  with  his  back  to 
them  and  to  VYSON. 

RUPERT.  Brazilian  visa:  granted  in  London 
on  Saturday. 

SIR  HECTOR  [to  JOE].    And  yours? 

JOE.    Tickets,  I  think. 

SIR  HECTOR.    What  date? 

RUPERT  [looking  over].    Sailing  to-night. 

[Silence. 

VYSON   [turning  about}.     Well,  have  you  fin- 
ished?    Is  my  poor  little  secret  out? 
RUPERT  [still  incredulous}.    But  why? 
JOE.     Cut  and  run,  he  would.     Cut  and  run — 
that's  what  it  looks  like. 

RUPERT.  I  fear  you're  right.  Guilty.  Poor 
Bentley. 

SIR  HECTOR  {on  whom  the  full  import  has 
dawnedy  roaring} .  I  see  it  all.  .  [He  turns  round.} 
Makin'  a  bolt  for  it  with  my  four  thousand  sent  on 
waiting  for  you  at  the  other  end?  That's  it,  eh? 
[To  JOE.]  Slip  out  and  get  a  policeman, 
50 


ACT    ONE 

[Jos  nods  and  goes. 

VYSON  [to  SIR  HECTOR  and  RUPERT].  Now  I 
suppose  you're  satisfied.  You've  hounded  me  like 
one  of  your  poor,  damned,  starving  foxes.  And 
you're  all  wrong.  I  didn't  take  the  money:  I  only 
wanted  to  get  out  of  all  this — away  from  such 
faces  and  such  minds  as  yours,  heaven  help  me! 
Come,  march  me  off  to  prison,  you  Justice  of  the 
Peace,  you  Justice's  son.  Never  mind  whether 
I'm  innocent  or  not.  Holloa,  holloa,  gone  away! 
You've  lost  money  and  you  want  blood.  I  know 
you.  [With  a  sudden  gust  of  impotent  rage.] 
God  blast  and  damn  you  to  eternity. 

[He  shakes  his  open  hands  at  them.  The 
door  opens.  CLARA  comes  in  and  stopsy 
amazed. 

CLARA.  Where's  Lois?  .  .  .  why,  what's  the 
matter? 

VYSON  [with  extraordinary  bitterness].  Noth- 
ing's the  matter,  Mrs.  Bentley. 

CLARA.    Why,  Mr.  Vyson 

VYSON.  The  gallant  Sir  Hector  here  is  going 
to  charge  me  with  embezzlement — that's  all. 

CLARA.    Oswald,  what's  he  mean? 

SIR  HECTOR.  It  means  for  once  he's  tellin'  the 
truth,  madam.  Here,  you.  Come  in.  [A  police- 
man has  appeared  at  the  doory  with  JOE  behind 
him.]  You  know  me.  You've  seen  me  on  the 
bench.  I  wish  to  charge 

VYSON  [bursting  out].  It's  not  fair.  I'm  inno- 
cent. Before  heaven,  I'm  innocent. 

SIR    HECTOR    [in    Ms    magistrate's    manner]. 

51 


GUILTY     SOULS 

Silence.     [  To  the  •policeman.  ]     Constable,  you  see 
who  are  present.    You  will  take  their  names.    My 
son,  Rupert — same  address  as  mine. 
VYSON  [appealingly].     Mrs.  Bentley! 

[Lois  has  come  in.  The  women  kiss.  Lois 
motions  for  MRS.  BENTLEY  to  goy  but 
MRS.  BENTLEY  shakes  her  head,  point- 
ing to  BENTLEY.  Then  they  follow  the 
scene — glancing  from  face  to  face — 
CLARA  chiefly  watching  BENTLEY  with  a 
'protective  glance,  and  Lois  watching 
VYSON. 

VYSON  [ap-pealingly  as  before].  Young  Ad- 
derly. 

RUPERT  [coldly].    Pm  sorry. 

[VYSON  turns  to  JOE,  but  JOE  only  stares 
back  at  him  with  impudence.  VYSON 
turns  to  BENTLEY. 

VYSON  [with  terrible  anguish  in  his  voice}. 
Bentley!  [No  answer.  BENTLEY  had  turned  away 
and  hidden  his  face  when  VYSON  cried  out  "  Pm 
innocent."  Now  he  stands  with  his  hands  hanging 
at  his  sides  and  iron  facey  averted.  VYSON  takes  a 
step  toward  him  and  cries  again.}  Bentley!  [No 
answer.  VYSON  casts  himself  on  his  knees  behind 
BENTLEY.]  Bentley,  do  turn  round.  [Child- 
like. ]  Speak  to  me.  You  do  believe  in  me,  Bent- 
ley.  You  must.  I  didn't  do  it.  I  know  I  am 
capable  of  it,  but  I  didn't  do  it.  I  only  wanted  to 
get  away.  I  gave  you  the  four  thousand,  you 
know  I  did.  It  was  your  money.  Say  you  believe 
52 


ACT     ONE 

in  me,  Bentley.  Nobody's  ever  believed  in  me  but 
you.  Mother  died,  father  hated  me — there's  no 
one  trusted  me  but  you  and  the  girl  with  whom  I 
was  to  go  to  Brazil  to-night.  To-night !  [Pause.] 
Oh,  Bentley,  Bentley,  say  something!  [He  bows 
down,  he  stretches  out  his  right  hand,  he  takes 
BENTLEY'S  cuff  and  attempts  to  kiss  it.  BENTLEY 
moves  his  hand  away.  Pause.  VYSON  keeps  his 
head  bowed.  Silence.  The  policeman  coughs. 
VYSON  raises  his  head.}  It's  over.  Blackness. 
I'll  never  believe  in  man  again.  {Standing  up 
facing  SIR  HECTOR,  wearily.}  Come  on.  Charge 
me,  then. 

SIR  HECTOR  [clearing  his  throat} .  This  is  very 
painful.  I'm  sorry  these  ladies  .  .  .  [  To  police- 
man.} I  desire  to  give  Mr.  Vyson  into  custody  on 
a  charge  of  embezzlement.  You  shall  have  details 
at  the  station.  [  The  policeman  hesitates. 

VYSON  [turning}.  For  the  last  time,  Bentley. 
[No  answer.  A  pause.  Then  VYSON  says  steadily.} 
I  see  it  now.  Bentley,  I  believe  you  did  it. 

[BENTLEY  turns  round  very  slowly  and 
looks  VYSON  in  the  face.  His  features 
are  solemn  and  his  eyes  full  of  pain. 

BENTLEY  [sorrowfully}.  You  know  who  did 
it. 

VYSON  [with  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  falters}. 
My  brain  turns  .  .  .  Could  .  .  .? 

[  The  policeman  approaches. 

POLICEMAN  [attracting  his  attention}.  Please, 
sir. 

VYSON  [stretching  out  his  hands  automatically 

53 


GUILTY     SOULS 

as  if  for  handcuffs] .    I  shan't  bite.    Do  your  duty. 
RUPERT  [before  the  policeman  steps  forward]. 
You'd  better  take  charge  of  this  evidence. 

[He  hands  the  policeman  the  tickets  and 
the    passport.      The    policeman    places 
them  in  his  breast  pocket.    When  VYSON 
see  this  he  covers  his  face  with  his  hands 
and  begins  to  sob  without  a  sound. 
POLICEMAN.    Now,  sir.    I  advise  you  to  come 
quietly,  and  I  wish  to  caution  you,  sir,  that  any- 
thing you  say  henceforward  may  be  used  as  evi- 
dence against  you. 

VYSON.     I've  nothing  to  say.     Let  me  get  my 

violin.  [He  points  to  the  door  on  the  right. 

POLICEMAN.    Violin!     You  can't  take  that,  sir. 

[SiR  HECTOR  goes  to  BENTLEY. 

VYSON  [weakly}.    Can't  I? — not  even  the  bow? 

[ The  policeman  shakes  his  head.}     Not  even  that. 

[More  weakly  still.}     Very  well. 

[The  two  begin  to  walk  round  the  table. 
POLICEMAN.    Anything  more,  sir? 

[BENTLEY  and  SIR  HECTOR  stand  aside  to 
let  the  policeman  and  VYSON  pass.    VY- 
SON as  he  passes  BENTLEY  clasps  his 
hands  over  his  face  and  rises  on  tip-toe 
like  a  man  stepping  along  a  tight-rope 
over  an  abyss.    RUPERT  follows. 
SIR  HECTOR  [to  the  group}.    Wait  out  there  a 
moment,  will  you?     [To  BENTLEY.]     I  think  the 
case  is  pretty  strong  against  him,  eh?     Old  Mr. 
Vyson  must  have  been  in  his  second  childhood 
when  he  interested  himself  in  that  young  man — 
54 


ACT     ONE 

anyone  can  see  he's  not  straight.  It's  hard  on  you. 
But  set  your  mind  at  rest — we  won't  desert  your 
firm:  more  especially  now  it's  yours,  and  yours 
only.  [To  those  outside.]  Coming.  [SiR  HEC- 
TOR -proffers  his  hand.  BENTLEY  does  not  appear 
to  see  it.  At  the  door  SIR  HECTOR  turns  and 
cries. ,]  You'll  be  coming,  of  course? 

[He   goes.     Lois   walks    to    the    window. 
CLARA  goes  silently  up  to  BENTLEY  and 
puts  her  arms  round  his  neck. 
Lois  [murmuring].    How  awful.     [Louder,  as 
she  sees  the  little  group  passing.]     He's  got  no 
hat.     I  do  hope  people  won't  stare  at  him. 
CLARA  [at  last,  in  a  low  voice].    Well? 
BENTLEY  [breaking  away  and  lifting  one  arm, 
passionately}.     He  brought  it  on  himself!      He 
brought  it  on  himself!     [He  staggers  to  the  table 
and  leans  against  it  with  eyes  closed.    Then  he  lifts 
his  head  suddenly ,  saying,  with  savage  resolution.  ] 
Give  me  my  hat.     What's  done  can't  be  undone. 
[And,  taking  his  hat  from  his  wife's  hand, 
he  hurries  out. 


QUICK   CURTAIN 


55 


ACT   TWO 


ACT    TWO 

BENTLEY'S  large,  rather  dim  and  gloomy  roomy 
used  as  dining-room  and  study.  At  the  back  two 
pseudo-Gothic,  1830,  pointed  windows,  with  low 
bookshelves  beneath,  looking  into  a  conservatory. 
Between  these  windows  a  double  glass  door  having 
a  light  divided  vertically  in  two  above  it.  In  the 
right  wall  far  back  a  door.  Near  this  door,  down 
stage,  a  revolving  bookcase  with  a  telephone  upon 
it.  Between  this  bookcase  and  the  proscenium  a 
writing-table  with  a  light  armchair  drawn  up  to 
it.  On  the  writing-table  writing  apparatus,  and 
on  top  of  the  writing-table,  above  the  pigeon-holes, 
etc.,  a  crucifix  about  fifteen  inches  high,  in  ebony, 
the  figure  of  ivory,  and  on  each  side  of  the  crucifix 
an  iron  candlestick  with  long  tapering  candles.  In 
the  left  wall,  far  back,  a  red  baize  swing  door. 
Further  forward  in  the  same  wall  a  hatch  with  let- 
down shelf.  Between  the  hatch  and  the  proscenium 
a  solid  sideboard.  In  the  centre  of  the  proscen- 
ium a  fender,  indicating  by  the  glow  upon  it  the 
presence  of  a  fire.  Between  the  fender  and  the  side- 
board a  deep  arm-chair  covered  with  dark  cretonne 
and  turned  to  the  fire.  Behind  this  chair's  back  the 
dining-table  with  four  chairs  set  to  it.  In  the 
centre  of  the  room,  but  well  forward  near  the 
fender,  a  footstool.  Between  the  footstool  and 
the  chair  at  the  writing-desk  a  small  table  with  a 
cigarette  box,  etc.,  and  a  large  photograph  frame 
with  RUPERT'S  photograph  within  turned  toward 
the  fire.  The  switch  for  the  triple  electric  bulb, 
which  depends  from  the  ceiling,  is  by  the  door  in 
the  right-hand  wall. 

59 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

//  is  late  in  the  afternoon  at  the  close  of  October. 
A  tranquil  golden  light  fills  the  scene  and  inci- 
dentally glitters  upon  the  pince-nez  of  CLARA,  who 
is  regarding  the  crucifix  on  BENTLEY'S  desk  with 
an  air  of  judicial  doubt.  Time  has  told  on  her — 
her  hair  is  not  quite  such  a  perfect  gold,  and  her 
face  is  decidedly  more  severe.  She  is  still,  how- 
ever, extremely  good-looking. 

VOICE  [in  the  conservatory}.  These  calceolarias 
will  want  watering. 

CLARA.  The  handyman  had  better  do  it — I 
suppose  he  can. 

[Lois,  who  is  now  twenty-three,  emerges 
•from  the  conservatory — dark,  slim^ 
calm-featured. 

Lois.  I  should  think  so — though  he  doesn't 
seem  very  willing  to  do  anything  but  sulk  in  the 
pantry.  He's  very  silent. 

CLARA  [pointing],    Psssh  .  .  .  He  can  hear. 

Lois.  That  hatch.  [She  shuts  it  down.}  It's 
all  right.  He's  out  or  upstairs.  He  keeps  out  of 
our  way. 

CLARA.  I  like  that  in  a  servant.  He's  been  here 
a  month  now,  and  I  never  see  him  except  at  meals. 
Oswald  made  a  good  choice  in  him — except  for  the 
red  hair.  I  will  say  the  fellow  does  his  work  well. 
In  that  respect  he's  a  treasure.  I'm  glad  I  en- 
gaged him  and  thank  heaven,  unlike  the  last,  he 
doesn't  try  to  curry  favour  with  Oswald. 

Lois.  Currying  favour  wouldn't  go  very  far 
with  Oswald  just  now. 

CLARA  [sitting  wearily  down  on  the  footstool}. 
60 


ACT     TWO 

How  many  times  did  he  speak  to  you  at  breakfast 
this  morning? 

Lois.    Twice. 

CLARA.    Twice  to  you  and  once  to  me. 

[She  bows  her  head. 

Lois  {coming  over] .  He's  really  very  unhappy. 

CLARA.  He  makes  others  unhappy  and  doesn't 
seem  to  care  that  he  does  so. 

Lois.  He  doesn't  notice  it.  When  your  eyes 
are  full  of  tears  you  can't  see. 

CLARA.    It  should  not  be  so. 

Lois.    It  is  so. 

CLARA.  He  mentioned  yesterday  that  he'd 
made  another  coup  a  month  ago.  He  ought  to  be 
pleased,  but  he  isn't.  They're  a  wonderful  busi- 
ness combination,  those  two — Oswald  and  Rupert. 
How  glad  I  am  they  went  into  oil  ....  that 
was  a  dull,  unpleasant  town  .  .  .  why,  we're  al- 
most rich.  [She  sighs. 

Lois.  Then  it  isn't  money  he's  .troubled  about. 
I  never  really  thought  it  was.  Rupert  says 

CLARA.  "  Rupert  says."  So  you've  discussed 
him  with  Rupert? 

Lois.  No,  Clara.  But  I  asked  Rupert  whether 
Oswald  was  very  busy  at  the  office.  I  thought 
he'd  know,  as  partner,  if  Oswald  was  overworking. 

CLARA.    And  what  does  Rupert  say? 

Lois.  Rupert  says  he's  hardly  ever  at  the 
office. 

CLARA.    What!     But  he  goes  down  every  day. 

Lois.  Not  to  the  office.  The  week  before  last 
he  only  did  two  half-days.  At  the  lunch  hour 

61 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

Rupert  saw  him  coming  out  of  the  Roman  Church. 
His  face  was  curious,  Rupert  says.  If  he  hadn't 
known  Oswald  so  well  he'd  have  said  he'd  been 
crying. 

CLARA.  It's  not  possible.  Rupert  must  be  mis- 
taken. 

Lois.  No.  He's  sure  it  was  Oswald:  though 
Oswald  pretended  not  to  see  him. 

CLARA.  I'm  sure  that  can't  be  true — Oswald — 
oh,  no:  that's  not  him  at  all! 

Lois.  Then,  too,  he  goes  walking.  Last  Tues- 
day I  came  on  him  as  I  was  bicycling.  He  was 
walking  with  his  head  down.  I  kept  behind. 
Every  now  and  then  he  hit  the  hedge  very  softly 
with  his  stick.  It  was  plain  he  was  arguing  with 
himself.  I  turned  back.  He  never  saw  me. 

CLARA.    Why  didn't  you  tell  me? 

Lois.    I  didn't  like  to  worry  you. 

CLARA.  I  think  I  should  have  been  told. 
[Looking  down.]  What  would  you  do  if,  for 
instance,  you  were  in  my  shoes? 

Lois  [considering].    I  don't  know. 

CLARA  [looking  up].    Don't  you  love  him? 

Lois.  Of  course  I  do.  But  I'm  not  his  wife. 
Love  makes  one  so  helpless. 

CLARA.    Why  do  you  say  that? 

Lois  [guardedly].  I  have  found  it  so.  But  if 
I  were  strong  enough  I  think  I  should  ask  to  share. 
But  the  opportunity  to  share  does  not  always  come. 
[Disturbed.]  How  odd  your  eyes  were  then. 

CLARA.     Tiredness.     You    are    so    honest,    so 
simple,  Lois,  you  surprise  me. 
62 


ACT    TWO 

[She  kisses  her.    Lois  goes  info  the  conser- 
vatory, leaving  the  doors  open. 
Lois.    He  should  be  here  any  moment  now. 
CLARA.    He'll  come  by  the  short  cut,  I  expect, 
and  over  the  lawn  .  .  .  Lois,  he's  so  difficult. 
I  seem  to  have  got  out  of  touch  with  trouble  .  .  . 
Lois.    There :  he's  coming  .... 

[She  re-enters. 

CLARA.    He  isn't  rational.    I  do  hate  men  when 
they're  moody.     It's  so  easy  to  be  sunny.     Why 
should  they  be  moody?    Everything's  quite  simple 
and  sane  if  you  are  only  simple  and  sane  toward  it. 
Lois  [looks  at  her  in  silence  and  then  says]. 
Aren't  you  going  to  try  to  share? 
CLARA.    But  I  do. 

Lois.    He'll  be  here  in  a  moment :  do  try. 
CLARA  [a  little  shortly].    Thank  you.    [Change 
of  tone.]     I  can't  face  him — not  this  minute.    I'll 
just  run  up  and  change — [casting  a  covert  glance 
at  Lois'  dress] — I  know  he  likes  a  pretty  dress. 
Lois  [protesting].    Don't,  Clara. 
CLARA  [at  the  door].    But,  my  dear  child,  men 
are  men.     It  can  do  no  harm. 
Lois  [distressed].    Oh! 

[Lois  goes  over  to  the  little  table  and  picks 
up  a  book.  BENTLEY,  a  good  deal  aged, 
enters  through  the  conservatory,  and 
slowly  closes  the  doors  after  him.  His 
face  is  moody,  his  eyes  full  of  weariness 
and  pain.  He  tosses  down  his  hat  as  if 
in  disgust  at  entering  this  room  again. 
BENTLEY.  Hello,  Lois. 

63 


GUILTY     SOULS 

Lois.    Hello,  Oswald. 

[She  sits  down  on  the  footstool. 

BENTLEY.    Where's  Clara?     I  want  to  see  her. 

Lois.     Upstairs.      [She    rises.]      I    think    she 

wants  to  have  a  talk  with  you.    She'll  be  down  in 

a  minute. 

[She  sits  down  again.  BENTLEY  stands 
staring,  hands  in  coat  pockets,  at  the 
•floor.  Lois  glances  at  BENTLEY,  then 
picks  up  a  book  from  the  small  table, 
opens  it,  and  glances  at  him  once  more. 
BENTLEY  wanders  over  to  her  and  stands 
looking  down  at  her.  She  looks  at  the 
book  again. 

Lois  [glancing  gently  up}.  Why  have  you 
underlined  this — do  I  translate  it  right? — "  Be- 
tween us  and  heaven  or  hell  there  is  only  this  life, 
which  is  the  frailest  thing  in  the  world?  ' 

BENTLEY.    Pascal.    Your  translation's  accurate. 
Lois.    But  I  thought  you  said  the  other  day  you 
didn't  believe  in  heaven  or  hell. 

BENTLEY.  Not  outside  us;  inside  us.  I've 
dropped  all  the  church  stuff. 

Lois.    What  about  the  Romans? 
BENTLEY.    How  did  you  guess  I'd  had  anything 
to  do  with  them?     They're  gone  too — Romans  as 
fv      well — can't  swallow  Transubstantiation,  the  Virgin 
Birth,  and  all  that  stuff — though  they  do  at  least 
understand  a  man  and  what   having  a  soul  is. 
Their  priesthood  is  a  lofty  craft — something  the 
Anglicans,  with   their  shamefacedness  and  their 
compromise,  will  never  master. 
64 


ACT     TWO 

Lois.  I  see.  [She  points.  OSWALD  seats  him- 
self in  the  big  armchair.}  Oswald,  something  is 
trying  me  rather  hard  just  now.  Submission  is 
hard.  Pm  not  trying  to  pry  out  your  secrets — I 
know  you're  unhappy — but  why  did  you  mark  that 
passage  and  what  d'you  think  Pascal  really  meant? 

BENTLEY.  I  can  tell  you  what  I  think  it  means 
to  us.  We  have  only  this  life,  and  while  it  lasts 
we  can  make  for  ourselves  a  state  of  heaven  or  hell 
within  our  souls.  Have  you  ever  considered  what 
"  only  this  life  "  means? 

Lois.    Yesj  a  drop  into  the  gulf  the  other  end. 

BENTLEY.  You  understand  .  .  .  Oh,  Lois  .  . 
[He  covers  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

Lois  [looking  up].  But,  Oswald,  you  should 
be  happy.  You're  real.  You  do  try  for  things. 

BENTLEY.  .  I  don't  really  try.  I  only  see  clearly 
enough  to  know  my  life's  a  sham. 

Lois  [-pained}.     Oswald! 

BENTLEY.  There's  a  sort  of  division  in  me.  I 
hope  for  nothing j  I  desire  nothing;  only  some- 
times I  feel  as  if  something  were  lacking  and  that 
I  shall  die  if  I  don't  get  it,  but  I  cannot  tell  what. 

Lois  [slowly ,  in  a  reverie}.  I  know  very  well 
what  I  want.  But  I  am  not  sure  we  have  a  right  to 
happiness.  God  may  wish  otherwise  for  our  good. 

BENTLEY.    You  believe  in  God? 

Lois  [quietly}.    Yes. 

BENTLEY  [more  quietly  still}.     So  do  I. 

Lois  [ hugging  her  knees ,  closing  her  eyes,  tilting 
back  her  head}.  The  Somebody  who  made  the 
universe,  the  Somebody  who  knew  it  was  better 

65 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

to  shed  his  only  life  apparently  vainly  for  others 
on  a  cross  than  to  live  selfishly,  the  Somebody  we 
feel  in  ourselves — my  Trinity:  Father,  Son,  and 
Holy  Spirit. 

BENTLEY.  Bless  you,  Lois.  I  am  not  so  lucky 
....  or  so  good.  [Change  of  toney  with  difficult 
precision.]  Imagine  a  familiar,  dreary  landscape 
with  a  lake  in  the  middle  of  it  on  a  still  raw  Janu- 
ary day  when  all  is  frozen  and  the  sun  hidden  in  a 
biting  mist  .  .  .  that  is  my  life,  everything  in  it  is 
quite  f  rostbound,  dead  and  stale.  Nothing  new  can 
happen:  overhead  the  sun — that  is,  God,  known 
to  be  present  but  quite  invisible,  careless  and 
remote.  Down  below  the  lake — call  it  my  soul- 
frozen  hard,  scarcely  reflecting  God  even  if  He 
appears — only  just  lying  there  dull  and  aching 
.  .  .  Lois,  there  are  times  when  I  would  give  the 
world  to  be  able  to  cry  .  .  . 

Lois.    I  understand. 

BENTLEY.  I  make  plans  to  get  right.  I  feel  a 
need  to  make  some  sacrifice — to  break  up  this 
hardness  in  me.  I  look  back  and  I  can't  be  sure 
I  ever  spent  one  day  as  it  should  be  spent. 

[  The  telephone  rings. 

BENTLEY.  Damn.  Pll  go — business  probably. 
I  haven't  been  near  it  lately.  [At  telephone.] 
Hello.  Hello.  Ah,  Rupert.  [Lois  stands  up. 
BENTLEY  turns  round  so  that  he  can  see  Lois. 
Pause.}  Hold  on  to  them?  No?  See  me?  Very 
well  .  .  .  Yes,  she's  in.  Certainly.  [He  cuts  of 
and  comes  slowly  back  to  his  seat.  As  he  sits  down 
he  says.  ]  Rupert's  coming  up.  He  should  be  here 
66 


ACT     TWO 

in  a  few  minutes.     He  was  asking  after  you. 

Lois.  Was  he?  [She  sits  down.  She  is  silent. 
Reviving.  ]  There  was  at  least  one  day  well  spent 
when  you  married  Clara. 

BENTLEY  [change  of  tone].     I  suppose  so. 
[He  smiles  weakly  at  her.     She  draws  the 
footstool  over  to  him  and  seats  herself 
with  her  head  against  the  arm  of  his 
chair. 

Lois  [very  seriously}.  Don't  pretend  you  doubt. 

BENTLEY  [bluntly}.    I  do. 

Lois  [revolted] .  What!  She  thinks  of  nothing 
but  you. 

[He  makes  a  motion  as  if  of  pain. 

BENTLEY  [musing}.  That's  it.  Pm  an  obses- 
sion with  her.  And  yet  she  doesn't  know  me. 

Lois.    But  you  must  love  her,  Oswald. 

BENTLEY  [looking  up].  What  .  .  .!  oh,  of 
course  I  do. 

Lois  [taking  his  arm].  Treat  me  seriously, 
Oswald,  or  we  fall  apart,  and  I've  no  one  but  you. 

BENTLEY  [bluntly].    Rupert. 

Lois  [putting  her  hands  over  her  cheeks ,  be- 
seechingly}. Don't  .  .  .  yet  it's  true:  his  love  is 
what  I  want. 

BENTLEY.  You  mustn't  mind  me,  Lois,  my 
darling.  [He  draws  her  into  his  arms  and  kisses 
her  on  the  forehead.]  I  hope  you'll 

Lois.  When  you — just  now — I  wish  I  didn't 
feel  quite  so  much  what  I  do  feel  about  Rupert,  for 
it  means  that  I  shall  have  to  give  up  perhaps 
feeling  quite  so  much  what  I  do  feel  about  you. 

67 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

BENTLEY  [smiling  gently].  That  sounds  very 
complicated.  About  Rupert 

Lois  [shaking  her  head  desperately].  Don't 
you  see?  He  doesn't  know.  And  on  his  side — oh 
well,  I  suppose  he  likes  me. 

BENTLEY.    "  Likes"  ? 

Lois  [with  sudden  impatience].  Yes;  it  can  be 
a  cruel  word  sometimes,  can't  it? 

BENTLEY.    Has  he  given  no  word,  no  sign? 
[Lois  shakes  her  head  slowly  and  turns  away. 

BENTLEY  [very  softly].  Lois,  dear  [looking up 
at  her]  I  think  you're  looking  very  pretty  to-night. 

Lois  [bending  down].  It  is  nice  of  you,  and 
very  much  like  you,  to  say  that.  But  I  shall  have 
to  take  what  comes.  If  he  says  something  I'm  his 
for  ever  and  ever,  and  if  he  doesn't  {sighing]  it's 
just  the  same.  [BENTLEY  bows  his  head.  Lois 
sits  down  by  him  again.]  Unhappy  still? 

BENTLEY.  I  was  wondering  if  I  could  have 
given  the  idea  of  Clara  up.  It  might  have  been 
better. 

Lois.    Better? 

BENTLEY.  Better  for  her.  Say  Rupert  pro- 
posed and  you  accepted,  could  you  give  him  up  if 
it  were  better  for  him? 

Lois.  Don't  ask  me — I — it  isn't  anything 
serious,  is  it? 

BENTLEY  {genuinely].  I  was  only  thinking 
that  in  many  ways  you  are  stronger  than  I. 

Lois  [abruptly].  Yes;  if  it  was  for  him,  I 
could.  There's  something  in  me  that  wouldn't  be 
68 


ACT     TWO 

afraid  to  die  for  him — and  that  would  be  a  form 
of  dying.  It's  not  virtue  in  me  or  just  my  being  in 
love  with  him,  it's  the  way  I  was  born. 

BENTLEY.     You're  so  true,  but  I — I  vacillate. 

[He  sighs. 

Lois.  Still  unhappy? — What  is  it?  Is  it  this 
God  affair? 

BENTLEY.  I  suppose  so.  It's  as  if  I'd  dropped 
out  of  God's  sight  and  now  suffered  a  sort  of 
paralysis  which  prevented  me  calling  His  atten- 
tion to  me,  and  in  any  case  I  have  no  right.  It 
isn't  worth  His  while.  I'm  nothing. 

Lois.  It  isn't  what  we  are,  but  what  we  do  that 
cuts  us  off.  Or  not  doing  something.  Not,  so  to 
speak,  facing  square.  Being  unwilling  to  give  up 
....  sometimes  I  think,  though,  God  lets  us  do 
these  things,  lets  us  despair,  that  we  may  fall  into 
His  arms.  It's  not  for  nothing  they  are  stretched 
out  like  that  upon  the  cross:  maybe  it  is  to  receive 
us  at  the  last.  If  you  cannot  tell  me,  tell  Him. 

BENTLEY  [sighing  dee-ply}.  There  is  nothing 
to  tell. 

Lois.  "  A  broken  and  contrite  spirit  Thou  shalt 
not  despise  " — isn't  that  beautiful?  And  it's  true. 

BENTLEY  [low].  Yes.  [A  long  pause.]  I 
must  talk  with  Clara.  [Rousing.]  Rupert  will  be 
coming.  If  I  were  you  I  should  go  and  meet  him 
down  the  drive.  Put  on  a  coat. 

Lois.    You  think  I  might? 

[Lois  goes  out  to  the  right  for  her  coat. 
BENTLEY  goes  over  to  the  crucifix  and 

69 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

looks  quietly  at  it.  Lois  comes  back  with 
a  coat  ony  the  collar  turned  up  but  open 
at  the  throat. 

Lois  [coming  up  to  him].    We've  had  a  good 
talk,  haven't  we?     [He  nods  and  kisses  her  hands. 
She  shakes  her  head  at  him.}     Please,  no;   Pd 
rather  you  didn't. 
BENTLEY.    Rupert? 

Lois.    No,  only  it  spoils  it.    And  if  there's  any- 
thing I  can  do 

[He  nods  mournfully.  She  goes  on  toward 
the  conservatory  doors.  She  opens  one. 
He  steals  up  behind  her. 

BENTLEY.    Don't  let  my  unhappiness  interfere 
with  your  happiness. 

Lois.    I'm  going  to  torture. 
BENTLEY.    With  joy  in  your  eyes. 
Lois.    Oswald,  you  understand  everything! 
BENTLEY.    But  somehow  I  think  it's  not  going 
to  be  torture  this  time. 

Lois.    Oh,  Oswald,  do  you  mean  it? 
BENTLEY.    I  don't  know,  but  his  way  of  asking 
about  you  on  the  telephone  .  .  .  There.     Go  to 
him. 

Lois.    Now  I  know  why  you  wanted  to  kiss  my 
hands.    If  you  had  only  said !     So  now — it  may  be 

for  the  last  time 

[She  presses  back  the  collar  of  her  coat  and 
lifts  her  head.  CLARA  comes  with  a  vase 
of  flowers  in  her  hands.  She  sees  BENT- 
LEY  bend  over  and  kiss  Lois  on  the  lips 
and  she  stifles  a  cry. 
70 


ACT     TWO 

BENTLEY  [much  moved}.  Now  go.  [She  dis- 
appears. BENTLEY  turns  round,  not  perturbed.} 
Hello,  Clara. 

CLARA.  I've  brought  you  some  flowers  from 
the  drawing-room.  [She  moves  across  the  room 
and  says  gently ,  hiding  her  pain.  ]  I  shouldn't  kiss 
Lois  any  more.  She's  grown  up  now,  you  know. 

BENTLEY.    I  shan't. 

CLARA.  That's  right.  Where  shall  I  put  them? 
Here? 

[She  deposits  the  flowers  by  the  crucifix. 

BENTLEY  [a  little  sharply].  No,  there  by  the 
telephone.  [She  goes  to  the  revolving  bookcase.] 
I've  something  to  say  to  you.  [CLARA  starts. 

CLARA  [arranging  the  flowers].  I  nearly  upset 
them.  Is  it  very  long?  Shall  we  sit  down? 

[She  sits  down  at  his  desk.  BENTLEY,  dur- 
ing the  ensuing  scene  perambulates  be- 
tween the  conservatory  doors  and  the 
flreplace. 

BENTLEY.  You  must  let  me  have  my  say.  I 
was  happy  once  .  .  .  is  it  possible?  I  don't  under- 
stand the  man  I  was  and  the  man  I  am  now. 

CLARA.  What  is  it  troubles  you?  You  seem  to 
me  what  priggish  people  call  a  "  very  upright 
man,"  and  I  am  pleased  and  proud  of  it. 

BENTLEY.  I  am  all  sin  and  yet  I  have  no  special 
sin. 

CLARA  [interrupting].  I  think  I  saw  the  hatch 
move. 

BENTLEY  [giving  a  glance] .    No,  it's  down 

[Continuing.]  What  am  I?    A  successful  business 

71 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

man :  a  perfectly  respectable  speculator.  I  am  said 
to  be  honest — as  if  any  business  were  honest!  I 
was  on  the  bench.  [He  laughs  mirthlessly. 

CLARA.  You  are  better  educated  than  others, 
and  better  acquainted  with  the  world:  those  are 
good  qualifications. 

BENTLEY.  But  they  give  me  no  right  to  judge 
others.  It  is  madness  to  think  they  do.  Once  I 
belonged  to  myself — I  seemed  to  myself  a  reason- 
able being,  so  reasonable  that  I  never  questioned 
my  right  to  live  as  I  did.  I  was  affable  with  some 
people,  I  took  it  on  myself  to  be  distant  with 
others.  I  was  a  man  of  affairs,  and  those  affairs 
seemed  important  and  reasonable,  and  such  as  a 
man  like  myself  did  well  to  be  engaged  upon. 
Reasonable!  Reasonable!  That  is  the  word  can 
most  drive  one  mad.  As  a  solicitor  I  busied  my- 
self with  other  people's  affairs  and  got  my  living 
that  way.  I  never  saw  that  my  own  affairs,  the 
thing,  the  crying  emptiness,  the  voice  in  the  desert 
of  my  own  soul  was  the  only  affair  that  counted, 
and  that  being  busy  getting  my  living — an  over- 
comfortable  living — was  merely  a  way  of  dying. 

CLARA.    But  one  must  live. 

BENTLEY.  I  was  beginning  to  discover  this 
emptiness  when  we  two  met.  And  at  the  first 
glance  you  entered  into  my  soul  as  if  you  had  the 
key.  And  I  never  questioned — no  woman  had 
ever  been  anything  but  a  moment  of  innocent 
amusement  or  an  hour  of  disgust,  and  I  said, 
"  Here  is  all  you  need." 
72 


ACT     TWO 

CLARA.  And  am  I  not  still?  Say  I  am,  for  you 
are  all  I  need  or  ever  shall  need. 

[She  approaches  him,  but  he  does  not  slop  in 

his  walk. 

BENTLEY  [troubled].  Don't  ask  me.  I  don't 
know.  I  daren't  inquire.  You  are  happier  than 
I :  that  is  all  I  know. 

[He  approaches  her  again  in  his  walk. 
CLARA  [in  pain] .    Is  that  all?    Look  at  me,  take 
me  in  your  arms,  kiss  me. 

[She  essays  to  put  her  arms  round  his  neck. 
BENTLEY.    Don't.    Don't.    I  can't  bear  you  to 
touch  me.     I  am  nothing. 

CLARA  [chilled].    Very  well.    As  you  like. 
BENTLEY    [morose].     I've  hurt  you.     I   see. 
I'm  sorry.    I  tell  you  I've  discovered  I'm  nothing. 
To  wear  these  clothes  .  .  .  talk  as  I  do  ...  be 
respected  .  .  .  that  isn't  what  I  want. 

CLARA.  Is  it  tenderness?  .  .  .  I've  given  you 
what  I  could.  Is  it  that  we  have  no  children? 
Before  we  were  poor  and  I  perhaps  was  selfish, 
and  now  .  .  .  [She  shrugs  sadly]  you  might  lose 
me. 

BENTLEY.  Ah,  don't.  You  and  Lois.  I've 
had  so  much  and  I'm  not  worthy.  Everybody  has 
been  so  good.  I  am  unworthy  of  you. 

[His  eyes  fill  with  tears.  He  grasps  her 
hand  convulsively  and  makes  as  if  to 
kiss  it. 

CLARA.  Don't,  don't.  This  is  hideous.  It  is 
unworthy  of  you  to  think  of  yourself  as  unworthy. 

73 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

BENTLEY.    Clara,  I  have  lost  my  religion. 

CLARA  [with  the  faintest  shadow  of  irony}. 
Yes?  Does  it  hurt  very  much? 

BENTLEY.  It  began  long  ago.  A  year  before 
the  smash  in  the  solicitor's  office.  Eight  years  ago 
now.  I  began  to  feel  restless  and  unsatisfied. 
These  periods  alternated  with  a  sort  of  satisfac- 
tion of  exhaustion  when  I  neither  hoped  nor 
feared  and,  looking  at  the  trees,  I  felt  I  would  like 
to  be  like  them  and  take  no  care  till  I  died.  Some- 
times I  feel  that  now. 

CLARA.  But  if  nothing  matters  or  means  any- 
thing, why  not  rest  and  be  content? 

BENTLEY.  There  must  be  a  more  positive  peace 
than  that.  And  the  unsatisf action  always  returned 
each  time  in  a  more  terrible  form — I  longed  to 
drink,  to  run  after  lewd  women:  anything  to  get 
away  from  my  inward  emptiness.  I  flung  myself 
into  my  work  and  tried  to  drug  myself  with 
routine.  Unsatisfaction  is  the  source  of  all  man's 
unhappiness. 

CLARA.    But  in  the  end  it  brought  you  here. 

BENTLEY.    What  is  here? 

CLARA  [patiently}.  It  is  your  home  which  I 
have  tried  to  make  as  you  would  have  it. 

BENTLEY.    There  is  no  home  save  where  God  is. 

CLARA  [in  pain].    We  have  done  our  best. 

BENTLEY.  I  know.  But  this  [waving  his  hand] 
lies  outside  the  matter:  temporal  things — I  desire 
eternal. 

CLARA  [still  patient].  I  know  I'm  not  very 
quick  at  religious  things — they  don't  seem  to  me 
74 


ACT     TWO 

to  move  according  to  any  plan  I  know  of.  But 
perhaps  if  you  tell  me  exactly — the  facts,  rather 
than  the  emotions — I  shall  understand.  I  don't 
see  why  being  a  business  man  should  make  you  un- 
happy. [With  faint  reproach.}  And  your  state 
of  unhappiness  makes  others  unhappy,  you  know. 
Aren't  you  perhaps  thinking  a  little  too  much 
about  self? 

BENTLEY.  Oh, if  you  could  see! — I  am  striving 
to  destroy  all  that  is  myself.  I  am  a  better  man 
than  I  was,  but  it  only  makes  me  more  unhappy. 
[Musing.}  After  Vyson's  fall  I  was  very  busy  and 
I  had  an  aversion  for  things  of  the  spirit.  How 
happy  I  was  then!  Vyson  was  safe,  shut  up, 
I  should  see  him  no  more. 

CLARA.    But  it  wasn't  your  fault. 

BENTLEY.  His  face  and  his  eyes  got  on  my 
nerves  at  the  trial.  [Pause.}  Then  no  sooner  was 
he  out  than  he  met  his  end. 

CLARA.    I  know. 

BENTLEY.  I  had  tried  to  do  him  good.  And 
that's  what  it  turned  to. 

CLARA.  But  how  were  you  concerned?  Vyson 
was  a  mere  neurasthenic. 

BENTLEY.  Still,  he  was  a  man.  When  he  came 
out  I  sent  him,  anonymously,  a  ticket  for  Brazil 
and  one  hundred  and  forty  pounds. 

CLARA.    A  hundred  and  forty? 

BENTLEY  [coldly}.  He  had  been  my  partner 
[walking  away} — and  yet  Vyson  is  nothing  to  do 
with  my  trouble. 

CLARA.    A  fine  partner! 

75 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

BENTLEY.    But  to  perish  so  miserably! 

CLARA.  I  remember  your  telling  me  he  was 
dead.  Was  it  suicide? 

BENTLEY  [shuddering] .  D'you  think  he  would 
have Had  I  brought  him  to  that? 

CLARA.    You? 

BENTLEY.  We — the  Court,  the  law,  and  my 
evidence — for  I  feel  persuaded  it  was  my  evidence 
finished  him. 

CLARA.  He  only  got  his  deserts.  Society  must 
be  protected. 

BENTLEY.    Society  is  not  protected. 

CLARA.    What? 

BENTLEY.  I  mean  that  sort  of  thing  doesn't 
protect  it. 

CLARA.    He  brought  it  on  himself. 

BENTLEY.  We  all  do  that,  but  some  suffer 
more  than  is  just. 

CLARA.  I  daresay  that,  anyway,  underneath  he 
wasn't  really  so  sensitive — easily-affected  people 
are  often  like  that. 

BENTLEY  [with  hidden  irony].    Are  they? 

CLARA.  Histrionics.  Easy  affectability  isn't 
necessarily  depth. 

BENTLEY.  It  doesn't  necessarily  exclude  it. 
Now,  I 

CLARA.  If  you'd  done  a  thing  like  that!  You 
couldn't  do  a  thing  like  that,  and,  anyhow,  if  you 
did,  you'd  soon  live  it  down :  a  strong  man  endures 
the  penalties  j  they  make  him  proud. 

BENTLEY.     Only  if  he  persuades  himself  he 
isn't  guilty. 
76 


ACT     TWO 

CLARA.  I  think  I  should  admire  a  man  able  to 
do  that. 

BENTLEY.    But  the  man  would  be  a  liar. 

CLARA.    After  all,  society  is  predatory. 

BENTLEY.  You  said  "  Society  must  be  pro- 
tected." 

CLARA.  Yes,  play  to  the  rules  or  don't  get 
caught  breaking  them:  though  it's  true  we  don't 
all  agree  on  those  rules.  There  is,  however,  a 
general  standard  which  requires  that  the  predatory 
instinct  should  not  endanger  society  as  a  whole. 
But  "  Women  "  [laughing]  some  philosopher  once 
said,  "  are  all,  at  heart,  anarchists."  I  can  quite 
believe  it.  We  prefer  the  convention  to  the  spirit 
— it's  more  reliable.  [She  is  amused. 

BENTLEY  [without  a  smile].  Society  need  not 
be  predatory. 

CLARA.    Make  your  complaint  to  Nature. 

BENTLEY.  Rape  is  Nature,  but  we've  overcome 
it. 

CLARA.    Don't  .  .  .! 

BENTLEY.  Society  need  not  be  predatory.  Es- 
tablish a  commonwealth  of  things  human  after 
the  teaching  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth.  Abolish 
profit. 

CLARA.  But  what  becomes  of  progress  without 
the  individual's  reward? 

BENTLEY  [more  serious  than  ever].  A  vicious 
circle.  [Sadly.]  Thieve  to  have  means — what 
for?  To  have  more  means  to  thieve. 

CLARA.     But  possessions 

BENTLEY.  All  earthly  possessions  are  vain. 

77 


GUILTY     SOULS 

Every  religion  begins  with  that.    There  is  no  pro- 
gress but  in  the  heart  of  man. 

CLARA.    Do  be  practical.    Who  is  to  begin  it? 
BENTLEY  [coming  up  to  her,  loudly}.    I  am! 

[CLARA  rises. 

CLARA  [staring  at  him}.  You?  You?  You're 
exalte  \ 

BENTLEY  [quietly}.  Someone  must  begin  it. 
Why  not  I? 

CLARA.    You're  mad. 

BENTLEY.  I  feared  you  would  say  that.  This 
is  what  I  had  determined  to  tell  you.  It  has  come 
out  sooner  than  I  expected.  Pm  materially  rich 
and  spiritually  bankrupt.  When  I  have  given  up 
what  I  have  gained  one  way  and  another  God  may 

accept  me — naked,  a  prodigal  son 

[CLARA   recoils.     The  trap   opens   with   a 

bang;  then  the  odd  man,  a  lame,  bent 

fellow,    clean   shaven,   with    red   hair, 

emerges  from  the  pantry  door  carrying 

a  tray,  which  he  places  on  the  sideboard. 

CLARA  [recovering] .    You  needn't  lay  the  table 

yet,  Bryant.    Dinner  will  be  an  hour  later.     I'll 

tell  Miss  Lois  myself. 

[BRYANT  goes  out  by  the  stairs  door. 
CLARA  [gently}.     Tell  me  now  how  you  ar- 
rived at  such  a  position.          [She  sits  down  again. 
BENTLEY.    Vyson  was  drowned. 
CLARA.    On  his  way  to  Brazil? 
BENTLEY.    Yes,  in  the  Gigantic. 

CLARA.    The  Gigantic! — the  one 

BENTLEY.  Yes.  He  must  have  been  below, 
78 


ACT     TWO 

since  his  body,  with  that  of  so  many  others,  was 
never  recovered.  [Strangely.]  I  think  I  see  him 
in  that  little  white  box  of  a  cabin.  He  went  sec- 
ond and  alone.  I  wished  him  to  travel  in  comfort 
...  So  in  the  small  hours  Vyson  lies  there  awake. 
A  feeble  light.  And  Vyson  is  thinking  "  Pm  out 
of  my  trouble.  It's  behind  me.  Pm  free.  The 
bitterness  is  over — past.  There's  a  new  life  before 
me  now.  I  shall  never  be  in  the  web  again."  And 
the  very  memory  of  the  Court,  of  the  faces  of  all 
the  actors  in  that  drama,  including  my  own,  begin 
to  fade  before  the  prospect  of  the  future.  We 
become  as  nothing  to  him.  He  laughs  at  us.  We 
cannot  touch  him  any  more.  [The  door  has 
opened  very  slowly  and  BRYANT  entersy  carrying 
a  leather  -post-bag.]  He  has  passed  from  our 
world.  He  is  free  as  a  ghost. 

[BRYANT  stands  still  staring  at  BENTLEY, 
who  is  looking  straight  before  him. 

CLARA  [without  turning  her  head].  There  are 
no  more  letters,  Bryant. 

[BRYANT  bows  and  withdraws  into  the  pantry. 

BENTLEY.  And  suddenly  as  Vyson  lies  there 
full  of  subdued  happiness  and  hope  it  happens: 
there  is  a  crash ;  the  roar  of  engines  reversed  j  in  a 
moment  darkness  falls  and  he  finds  himself  im- 
prisoned. It  will  be  three  hours  before  all  is  over. 
[Whispering.]  So  long  she  took  to  go  down. 
[Pause.}  And  he  just  thinking  he  was  safe  at  last. 

CLARA.  She  hit  a  derelict,  didn't  she?  [BENT- 
LEY  nods.]  Be  reasonable:  a  derelict  is  an  act  of 
God. 

79 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

BENTLEY  [passionately].  An  act  of  the  devil! 
It  has  destroyed  me.  [  Uneasily.  ]  I  can  feel  him 
standing  in  the  darkness  while  the  warm  tropic 
water  deepens  round  his  feet.  [Crescendo.]  A 
few  minutes  since  he  was  safe.  Now  in  a  few  min- 
utes he  will  die — and  I,  I  am  responsible! 

[He  gestures. 

CLARA.    It  was  fate. 

BENTLEY.  Fate!  Fate!  But  there  must  be 
justice  in  God.  I  am  living:  he  is  dead.  Dead! 
[He  gets  up  and  walks  the  room.]  Here  am  I — 
Joe  is  dead,  Sir  Hector  is  dead,  Vyson  is  dead:  the 
responsibilities  of  their  souls  trouble  them  no 
more.  Death !  — we  dare  not  consider  it.  We  say 
"  So-and-so  is  dead,"  and  we  avert  our  eyes  from 
a  thing  that  happens  every  day  .  .  .  But  when 
Vyson  died  I  could  not  avert  my  eyes.  The  in- 
calculableness  of  death's  choice  fascinated  me. 
For  if  death  is  so  unfair  to  the  ill-used,  what  shall 
he  do  to  the  fortunate?  [He  stops  in  his  walk.] 
Clara,  I  saw  a  motto  on  a  calendar  once.  I  kept  it. 
[He  hurries  to  his  desk,  pulls  out  a  drawer,  and 
extracts  a  card.]  Read. 

CLARA  [reading  automatically],  "  Two  things 
there  are  at  which  it  is  not  wise  to  gaze  too  long: 
death  and  the  sun."  Yes.  That's  Rochefoucauld, 
I  think. 

[She  puts  the  card  down.  BENTLEY  sits  down. 

BENTLEY.  What  must  the  Frenchman  have 
suffered  to  know  that !  When  Vyson  was  drowned 
I  felt  in  some  strange  way  that  this  was  a  chal- 
lenge. I  too  must  share  that  gazing.  His  death 
80 


ACT    TWO 

was  the  work  of  a  higher  power  which  thwarted 
the  atonement  of  myself  and  society.  What  did  it 
mean?  What  was  death?  I  shut  myself  up,  pre- 
tending a  headache,  and  faced  the  thought  of 
death.  I  sat  down,  took  a  long  breath  and,  as  it 
were,  plunged.  In  five  minutes  I  had  a  sense  of 
death  like  a  revelation.  [He  rises,  and  stands 
shivering.  Then  abruptly  sits  down  again.  With 
quiet  but  extreme  intensity.  ]  It  is  as  if  one  found 
oneself  on  a  sort  of  diving-board  jutting  into  pure 
void.  Above  and  below  and  around  there  is  noth- 
ing but  black  space — something  that  goes  on  and 
that  has  no  ceiling  and  no  walls  and  no  floor,  and 
which  you  cannot  understand.  At  first  your  heart 
pants  and  you  tremble  so  much  you  fear  to  fall  off 
the  plank.  Then  that  goes  and  nothing  remains 
but  a  feeling  of  oppression:  your  head  throbs,  you 
cling  on  all  fours  to  the  plank,  unable  to  stir  a 
limb.  And  then,  all  at  once,  you  notice  something 

THE  PLANK  IS  BEING  STEALTHILY  WITHDRAWN 

FROM  UNDER  YOU.  You  can  see  that  the  end  of 
the  plank  is  approaching.  Some  time  the  end  will 
be  drawn  from  under  you.  And  as  you  lie  along 
the  plank  such  a  nausea  comes  over  you  that  you 
want  to  vomit.  No  nightmare  can  compare  with 
this,  for  in  a  nightmare  you  know  that  it  will  end. 

BUT  YOU  KNOW  THAT,  WHEN  YOU  WAKE  UP  FROM 
THIS,  YOU  WILL  STILL  BE  ON  THE  PLANK.  [Aw- 

fully.]  WE  ARE  ON  IT  NOW.  I  Gesturing  with  a 
sweep  over  and  across  the  fender.  ]  We,  all  of  us, 
are  on  it  now.  [He  rises.]  Realize  that,  and  you 
will  know  the  vertigo  of  the  abyss. 

81 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

CLARA.  Don't  take  that  accusative  tone.  It  is 
wisest  to  refuse  to  face  some  things.  I  should  be- 
gin to  go  mad  if  I  didn't. 

BENTLEY.  No,  you  would  begin  where  all  must 
end — on  your  knees.  Nothing  matters  but  God — 
nothing!  nothing!  To  the  bottom  of  my  soul  I 
know  that.  Let  us  kneel  down  here  and  now. 

[He  stretches  out  his  hand. 

CLARA  [standing  up.  She  sees  this  is  the  battle  y 
and  is  determined  to  win  once  and  -for  all].  No, 
no,  Pd  rather  go  mad  than  that.  You  have  said 
nothing  matters  but  God.  Are  love  and  service 
nothing?  Human  relationships  nothing?  Hon- 
esty nothing?  All  I  have  lived  for?  All  insigni- 
ficant? Answer.  Do  you  feel  that?  [BENTLEY 
lowers  his  head.  Lower  tone.]  I  remember  when 
I  first  knew  you,  though  you  were  mainly  an  honest 
Churchman,  yet  you  had  one  blind  spot :  you  were 
dogged  by  this  unhealthy  idea  of  a  God  who 
haunts  man  like  a  malignant  phantom.  But  I 
loved  you,  and  I  believed  that  you  loved  me. 
Under  the  sunlight  I  tried  to  shed  on  you  that 
phantom  seemed  to  dissolve.  I  said  to  myself, 
"  He  is  healed.  The  phantom  is  dead." 

BENTLEY  [sullenly].    God  does  not  die. 

CLARA.     No,  it  seems  He  lives  to  torment  us. 

BENTLEY.  No,  we  torment  ourselves  because 
we  remember  that  we  do  not  serve  Him.  He  is 
merciful.  He  reminds  us  in  time. 

CLARA.  I  love  you,  and  you  know  that  I  love 
you.  I  ask  you  to  remember  that  and,  oh,  if  you 
82 


ACT     TWO 

have  any  mercy,  as  you  say  your  God  has  mercy, 
try  to  understand  my  need  of  you! 

BENTLEY  {looking  down].  That  is  my  burden, 
for  His  need  is  greater. 

CLARA  [losing  all  control — passionately].  Oh, 
your  God  is  cruel  and  makes  you  cruel!  [Grow- 
ing frantic.]  Look  at  me — I  am  only  a  woman. 
I  feel  the  terrors  as  much  or  more  than  you,  but 
let  your  cruel,  jealous,  bullying,  Jewish-Christian 
God — if  there  could  be  such  a  Being — or  infamous 
Fate  bowl  me  over,  I  will  not  submit.  Broken  as 
I  am,  I  will  not  slobber  over  His  iron  feet.  I've 
some  pride  left,  and  I  say  that  the  human  spirit  is 
fairer  than  such  a  God.  If  God  mocks  man,  let 
man  repay  Him  with  one  glance  of  scorn,  and  of 
that  glance  let  that  cruel  God  die,  for  if  He  lives 
He  deserves  no  more  of  all  women,  who  have 
known  the  dignity  of  loving  and  being  loved  would 
deal  Him — what  I  deal  Him  now  [all  but  in  tears 
of  mortification  and  grief],  my  curse! 

BENTLEY.  Clara!  Clara!  You  don't  know 
what  you're  saying. 

CLARA.  I  do.  [Pulling  herself  together.]  I've 
loved  you.  I  have  borne  with  you  because  I  loved 
you.  I  have  tried  to  make  my  love  for  you  like 
my  notion  of  any  possible  God — a  fountain  of 
frankness  and  sunlight.  I  know  I  am  proud.  My 
pride  has  kept  me  honest  in  my  love  toward  you. 
And  now — what's  happened?  All  that  I  respected 
seems  gone — there's  no  dignity  or  constancy  in 
you.  You  have  contracted  a  sort  of  spiritual 

83 


GUILTY     SOULS 

disease,  a  vice  of  the  soul,  and  you  will  ruin 

yourself. 

BENTLEY.    But  it  is  all  that  is  best  in  me  makes 

me  so  aspire. 

CLARA.    I  know  you  better  than  that.    It  is  all 

that  is  feeblest. 

BENTLEY.    No,  no,  it  is  my  strength  that  desires 

God.     [In  anguish.]     My  heart  cries  out  to  Him. 

When  it  calls  He  lives  and  I  live  in  Him,  and 

when,  through  sin  or  emptiness,  it  will  not  or 

cannot  cry,  then  He  no  longer  exists  and  I  die. 

[Quietly.}     Clara,  believe  me.     I  perish  for  the 

love  of  God. 

CLARA.     Tell  that  to  a  woman  who  does  not 

love  you! 

[She  sweeps  towards  the  door  and  opens  it. 
At  the  door  she  turns  about,  smiling, 
triumphant,  with  her  arms  open  to  re- 
ceive the  penitent.  But  her  expression 
changes  to  one  of  horror,  for  she  per- 
ceives that  BENTLEY  has  crossed  the  room 
and  fallen  on  his  knees  before  the  cruci- 
fix. Completely  vanquished,  she  rushes 
out  and  pulls  the  door  to  after  her. 
BRYANT  looks  in,  but  retires  as  BENTLEY 
rises  from  his  knees.  Without  a  sound, 
without  a  gesture,  save  of  placing  his 
hands  over  his  ears  as  if  to  shut  out  what 
he  has  just  heard,  BENTLEY  goes  out 
through  the  conservatory.  BRYANT  re- 
appears, bearing  a  photograph  with  him, 
and  makes  for  the  little  table.  He  lifts 

84 


ACT     TWO 

up  the  'portrait  of  RUPERT  and  makes  as 
if  to  substitute  the  second  portrait  for 
the  first.     Then,  as  if  doubtful  of  the 
'propriety  of  thisy  he  looks  at  the  crucifix 
and  then  at  the  door  by  which  BENTLEY 
has  vanished,  and  finally  replaces  RU- 
PERT'S portrait  exactly  where  it  stood 
before.     As  he  does  soy  having  his  back 
to  the  room,  MRS.  BENTLEY  steals  in. 
CLARA.     Forgive  me — [she  sees  who  it  is  and 
stifles  her  sentence.  ]     Bryant,  we  will  not  wait  the 
full  hour:  we  will  have  dinner  directly  Miss  Lois 
comes  in.     Sound  the  gong  for  me,  I  shall  be  in 
my  room. 

[She  goes  out.  BRYANT  consults  his  watch 
and  hurries  toward  the  pantry ,  taking 
the  photograph  he  had  brought  in  with 
him.  The  room  is  very  dim.  Behind 
the  conservatory  lingers  a  faint  twilight. 
As  BRYANT  reaches  his  door  RUPERT'S 
voice  is  heard  saying^  "  You  nearly  made 
me  trip  on  the  steps,  Lois."  BRYANT,  in 
the  shadow  of  the  corner y  stops  to  listen. 
Lois  [in  the  conservatory].  Must  we  go  back 
so  soon  into  life  again? 

RUPERT.  This  concerns  others  as  well  as  our- 
selves. [Laughing  half  dolefully.]  The  world 
goes  on  even  though  we  are  engaged. 

Lois.  I  feel  as  if  I'd  never  eat  or  sleep  or  do 
ordinary  things  again.  It's  as  if  I  were  stepping  on 
air.  I'm  so  happy  in  the  darkness.  How  shall  I 
speak  to  you  in  the  light?  Hold  my  arm,  Rupert. 

85 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

RUPERT.    Once  more. 

[BRYANT  leans  forward.  The  silhouettes  of 
Lois  and  RUPERT,  scarcely  distinguish- 
able among  the  foliage,  merge  into  one. 
BRYANT  clutches  himself  and  goes  into 
the  'pantry. 

Lois.  Perhaps  we'd  best  go  in.  Pm  shivering 
so.  [  The  two  come  in. 

RUPERT.  Hello!  any  one  at  home?   [No  answer. 
Lois.    Oswald.    Oswald. 

[She  puts  her  hands  over  her  face. 
RUPERT  [awkwardly].    I  thought  I  saw  some- 
body on  the  lawn — when  we  were  under  the  cedar. 
Perhaps  he's  gone  out. 

Lois.  Do  go  and  find  him — just  for  a  moment: 
my  heart's  beating  so,  I  feel  so  shaken. 

RUPERT.     Take  your  hands  away.     [He  looks 
into  her  face.}     It's  all  right,  isn't  it? 
Lois  [smiling  constrainedly].    Yes. 

[He  presses  her  hands  to  his  mouth.     They 

smile  feebly  at  each  other. 
RUPERT.    And  we'll  tell  Clara  and  Oswald  of 
our  engagement  at  once? 

Lois.  I  suppose  so.  I  suppose  we  should.  But 
when  happiness  comes  I  feel  so  loath  to  tell  for 
fear  it  should  evaporate.  And  to-night,  with  the 
biggest  of  all,  I  have  a  feeling  of  its  slipping  away 
from  me,  of  its  being  so  good  that  it  could  never 
possibly  last.  As  if  something  threatened  it. 

RUPERT.  Nonsense,  Lois.  Nothing  threatens 
it.  [Quieter.]  That's  good.  Go  and  tell  Clara. 

Lois.    Very  well. 
86 


ACT     TWO 

[RUPERT  gently  blows  a  kiss  to  hery  and  they 
go  out — she  by  the  door  to  the  stairs,  he 
by  the  conservatory.  BRYANT  softly 
of  ens  the  gantry  door  and  comes  into 
the  middle  of  the  room.  For  a  moment 
he  stands  as  if  fuming  with  rage,  next 
quietly  and  quickly  goes  to  the  'photo- 
graph frame,  pulls  out  the  'portrait,  and 
replaces  it  by  one  he  carries.  The  por- 
trait of  RUPERT  he  tears  into  shreds  and 
casts  into  the  waste-paper  basket.  A 
step  is  heard  in  the  conservatory. 
BRYANT  glides  back  into  the  pantry. 
RUPERT  re-enters,  wanders  to  and  looks 
through  the  door  to  the  right  in  a  hesi- 
tating manner.  His  back  is  turned  to  the 
pantry  door.  BRYANT  comes  silently  in, 
and,  seeing  RUPERT,  makes  as  if  to  go 
and  remove  the  photograph,  but  recoils 
on  seeing  RUPERT  about  to  turn.  BRY- 
ANT retreats  into  the  pantry.  RUPERT 
switches  on  the  light  and  strolls  to  the 
little  table  in  search  of  a  cigarette.  As 
he  stoops  for  the  box  he  starts,  seeing 
the  portrait.  Then  he  lifts  it  in  both 
hands.  Lois  enters. 

Lois.    Where's  Oswald? 

RUPERT    [swinging  round],     I   couldn't  find 
him.    I  say  [holding  up  the  frame} ! 

Lois.    Clara  wouldn't  see  me. 

RUPERT.    Eh? 

Lois.    She  seems  terribly  upset.     I  could  hear 

87 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

her  crying  through  the  door.  I  never  heard  her 
cry  before.  I  didn't  tell  her  our  secret.  She  says 
will  we  go  into  the  drawing-room.  She'll  be  down 
in  a  few  minutes.  [  Coming  up  to  him,  laughing.  ] 
Proud  of  yourself  in  your  new  frame? 

RUPERT  [gravely y  offering  her  the  frame] .  Do 
I  look  like  that? 

Lois.    But — what!    .  .  .  Who  is  it? 

RUPERT.    Vyson. 

Lois.     Vyson?     Vyson? 

RUPERT.  My  predecessor  in  partnership — 
when  Oswald  was  a  solicitor,  not  oil  speculator. 

Lois.  Vyson?  .  .  .  Why,  so  it  is:  I'd  for- 
gotten him. 

RUPERT.  See  what  it's  got  written  on  it:  "  Con- 
demn not,  and  thou  shalt  not  be  condemned." 
Oswald  must  be  mad.  [Lois  takes  it. 

Lois.    Who  put  it  there? 

RUPERT.  It  must  be  Oswald — who  else  could 
it  be?  Fancy  having  it  in  his  study!  Since 
Vyson's  death  Oswald  won't  let  his  name  be  men- 
tioned. But  I'm  certain  he  often  thinks  about  him. 

Lois.  I'm  sorry  he  ever  lived,  if  his  memory  is 
going  to  upset  Oswald. 

RUPERT.    Shall  I  put  it  away? 

Lois.  No;  that  might  upset  him  more.  He's 
in  a  terrible  state  just  now. 

RUPERT.    Tell  Clara? 

Lois.  No.  Let's  hope  he'll  put  it  away  before 
she  sees  it,  if  she  hasn't  seen  it. 

[RUPERT  replaces  the  -photograph,  with  its 
back  toward  the  room. 


ACT    TWO 

RUPERT  [rising].  It  must  be  close  on  dinner. 
Let's  go  to  the  drawing-room  and  wait  for 
Clara. 

[They  go  out  together.  BRYANT  appears 
with  a  tray  and  begins  rapidly  laying  the 
table.  BENTLEY  comes  in:  his  face  is 
composed,  but  full  of  gloom. 
BENTLEY  {smiling  wearily,  as  he  fingers  his 
hair].  The  dew  that  falls  upon  the  just  and  upon 
the  unjust.  [Glancing  at  BRYANT'S  tray.}  Din- 
ner? [He  looks  at  his  hands  as  if  considering 
washing  them,  and  goes  out  by  the  door  to  the 
right.  BRYANT  comes  forward  and  twists  the 
photograph  so  that  it  faces  the  room.  BENTLEY 
returns,  rubbing  his  fingers  together.  He  begins 
to  pace  up  and  down,  looking  at  the  floor.  BRY- 
ANT, finishing  laying  the  table,  covertly  watches 
BENTLEY  as  at  the  end  of  the  turn  BENTLEY  each 
time  draws  nearer  the  little  table.  At  last  BENT- 
LEY  stops  as  if  he  suddenly  beheld  at  his  feet  an 
abyss  in  the  floor.  He  all  but  cries  out;  then, 
taking  up  the  portrait  in  shaking  hands,  he  reads 
aloud  the  first  two  words — "  Condemn  not  .  .  ." 
He  glances  fearfully  over  his  left  shoulder  and 
then  over  his  right,  and,  seeing  BRYANT,  replaces 
the  portrait.  Then  he  stands  up  and  says,  control- 
ling his  voice  as  best  he  may.}  Bryant,  do  you 
know  anything  of  this?  [BRYANT  comes  up  on  his 
right.}  How  did  it  come  here?  [BRYANT  lifts 
the  picture.  Silence.  With  a  hissing  sound.] 
Answer. 

BRYANT  [holding  up  the  picture  before  BENT- 

89 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

LEY].    Look  on  that  face  and  [indicating  his  own] 
on  this.    Look  at  the  eyes. 

BENTLEY.  I [Loudly]  Vyson!  [Fright- 
fully agitated.]  No,  no.  Impossible:  he's  dead. 
[Staring  at  BRYANT  and  making  a  little  gesture 
with  his  hand.]  Begone. 

BRYANT  [slowly].    Vyson  is  dead. 
BENTLEY.      What!    .  .  .  Vyson  .  .  .  Bryant? 
BRYANT.    Vyson  is  dead.    Bryant  does  not  exist. 
[Exalted.]     I  am  your  Conscience  and  I  do  not 
leave  you  till  you  either  die  or  confess. 
BENTLEY  [weakly].    Help! 

[BRYANT  hushes  him  with  one  glance  to- 
ward the  doors,  one  motion  of  the  hand. 
BENTLEY  [faltering].     My  conscience? 
BRYANT  [firmly].    The  Voice  of  God. 

[BRYANT  slides  the  picture  face  downwards 
on  the  table.  Then  he  glides  to  the  gong 
and  fiercely  but  coolly  strikes  it  a  hollow 
blow.  As  the  note  dies  away  the  door 
opens  and  CLARA,  followed  by  Lois  and 
RUPERT,  comes  in. 

CLARA  [outside  the  door].  It'll  do  him  good. 
It'll  make  him  forget.  [Entering.]  Shall  I  tell 
him?  [Calling.]  These  two  dear  things  [Pause.] 
Oswald ! 

Lois  [to  BENTLEY].  The  torture  is  over.  Ru- 
pert and  I 

[The   words   die    out,   for   BENTLEY    has 

turned  slowly  round  and  they  have  all 

seen  his  face.     They  sit  down,  almost 

terrified,  in  silence.    BRYANT  gently  in- 

90 


ACT    TWO 

dicates  that  dinner  is  served.  BENTLEY 
goes  over  to  the  table.  As  he  -passes 
BRYANT  he  shrinks  and  turns  away  his 
head.  BRYANT  sets  his  chair.  BENTLEY 
sits  down  andy  gathering  his  elbows  to- 
gether on  the  table  like  a  haunted  man, 
sets  his  closed  fists  against  his  teeth. 


SLOW  CURTAIN 


91 


ACT   THREE 


ACT   THREE 

The  same  room.  Three  days  later.  Early  eve- 
ning. CLARA  discovered  Bulling  out  the  drawers 
in  BENTLEY'S  desk.  RUPERT  enters  through  the 
conservatory. 

RUPERT.    Ah,  Clara!     Where's  Lois? 

CLARA.    How  is  he? 

RUPERT.    Whom? 

CLARA.    Oswald. 

RUPERT.    What!  isn't  he  here? 

CLARA.    Don't  you  know  where  he  is? 

RUPERT.  No.  I  just  ran  in  to  see  Lois.  I 
thought  she  might  be  with  Oswald. 

CLARA.    She's  not  in. 

RUPERT.  Damnation.  I  haven't  seen  her  for 
three  days,  not  since  that  evening. 

CLARA.    And  Oswald — isn't  he  at  the  office? 

RUPERT.  Oh,  he's  been.  Been  and  gone.  I 
daresay  they're  out  together.  Then  he'll  be  all 
right.  [She  winces. 

CLARA  [low],  D'you  know  what  I  was  looking 
for  when  you  came  in? 

RUPERT  [glancing  round  at  the  little  table\. 
Vyson's  portrait? 

CLARA.     I  don't  follow  you 

RUPERT.  Didn't  you  see  it?  It  was  here  right 
on  this  table  on  that  awful  night.  No?  Then  he 
must  have  put  it  away. 

CLARA.  So  that's  why  he  locked  this  drawer. 
I  feared  it  was  something  else. 

RUPERT  [softly,  awed].    What? 

CLARA.    Ammunition. 

RUPERT.    Ammunition! 

95 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

CLARA.  I  never  will  let  him  keep  ammunition 
in  the  house.  A  revolver's  such  a  dangerous  thing 
at  any  time.  And  just  now — you  follow  me? 

RUPERT.    You  surely  can't  mean  he  might 

[She  nodsy  distraught. 

RUPERT.  No,  Clara,  it's  not  possible.  He's  not 
that  type. 

CLARA  [very  low].  Anything's  possible. 
[Louder.]  He's  quite  mad. 

RUPERT.    You  mean  he ? 

CLARA.  Listen.  After  dinner  on  Wednesday, 
when  you'd  gone,  he  made  us  come  and  sit  with 
him.  He  said  he  was  afraid  to  be  alone  j  said  his 
nerve  was  gone  through  business. 

RUPERT.  After-strain,  perhaps.  We've  both 
worked  very  hard  these  last  few  years.  He 
especially.  He  paid  back  all  Vyson  stole.  But 
the  struggle's  told  on  him,  and  I  tell  you  he 
showed  a  nerve!  Well,  that  sort  of  thing  can't 
go  on  for  ever.  He  should  see  a  doctor. 

CLARA.  Rupert,  it  was  awful.  For  two  whole 
hours  he  sat  in  that  chair  and  trembled — just  like 
a  rabbit  that  hears  the  stoat  behind  it.  At  last  I 
took  him  to  bed.  [Looking  away.]  I  was  as 
tender  to  him  as  possible.  In  the  small  hours  he 
got  up  and  went  out.  Since  then,  whenever  he's 
been  in  he's  more  or  less  barricaded  himself  in 
here.  [Looking  at  him  again.]  At  intervals  he 
calls  for  us,  and  we  go  and  sit  with  him.  He  says 
he's  going  to  give  his  money  away — every  penny. 

RUPERT.    What! 

CLARA.    He  persists  in  that. 
96 


ACT     THREE 

RUPERT.  Does  he? — indeed!  Of  course,  he's 
quite  capable  of  carrying  any  idea  through  once 
he  gets  it  into  his  head.  That  last  oil  coup  .... 
Well,  I  wonder.  It  certainly  looks  serious.  He 
came  down  on  Wednesday  morning  "  to  go 
through  his  papers  " — so  he  said.  But  when  I 
went  in  to  see  him  he  was  sitting  still  as  a  stone, 
only  every  now  and  then  his  fingers  were  tracing 
in  the  air  like  this — 

[RUPERT  traces  a  cross  in  the  air  with  his 
first  and  second  fingers  joined  together 
as  a  priest  does  when  blessing. 

CLARA.  The  sign  of  the  cross.  Oh,  I  hate  the 
cross!  Look  at  that  [she  -points  to  the  crucifix],  it 
obsesses  him.  His  old  robust  self  seems  quite 
gone.  In  the  middle  of  my  talking  to  him  he'll 
go  and  devour  that  thing  with  his  eyes. 

RUPERT.    How? 

CLARA.  Sometimes  as  if  in  prayer,  more  often 
in  a  silent  fury. 

RUPERT.    Why  don't  you  move  it? 

CLARA.    I  daren't. 

RUPERT.  Choose  some  pretext  at  a  moment 
when  he's  angry  with  it.  Perhaps  if  you  succeed 
he  may  calm  down.  We  don't  want  to  call  in  a 
doctor  before  it's  absolutely  necessary.  Let's  give 
him  one  day  more — meanwhile  keep  a  close  obser- 
vation on  him.  Never  leave  him. 

CLARA.  How  can  I  spy  on  him?  It  isn't 
honest.  I  daren't  now,  too,  of  all  times,  just  when 
he  has  become  so  suspicious  of  me. 

RUPERT.    Lois,  then? 

97 


GUILTY    SOULS 

CLARA  [shortly].    No. 

RUPERT.    Why  not? 

CLARA.    Aren't  you  engaged  to  Lois? 

RUPERT.  What  of  it? — Clara,  what  d'you 
mean? 

CLARA.  Don't  look  at  me,  Rupert.  I  feel 
ashamed  to  say  it.  I — no,  I  can't  say  it.  Pm  a 
proud  woman. 

RUPERT  [coming  up  to  her}.    You  must. 

CLARA  [whispering  piteously].  Pm  jealous  of 
Lois.  [Louder.]  She — she — she's  got  every- 
thing on  her  side — and — that  I  should  have  to  say 

it! — perhaps   she    understands    him    better   than 
j 

RUPERT.    Well? 

CLARA.  She's  younger — I  can't  help  seeing  she's 
beautiful.  She's  better-looking  now  than  I 

RUPERT.    Of  course,  as  her  fiance 

CLARA  [stamping].  Don't  be  specious.  She  is 
beautiful — and  I,  I'm  getting  old — Pm  going 
off — ah,  to  think  it!  Just  when  I  need  every 
advantage  I  can  have  to  keep  him. 

RUPERT  [coldly  and  uneasily].  But,  Clara,  I 
don't  understand  you.  Lois  is  engaged  to  me. 
[Their  eyes  meet.]  Come,  you  know  her  char- 
acter. 

CLARA.  Yes.  Has  it  struck  you  that  what  is 
considered  best  in  her  may  impel  her  to  the  worst? 
She  is  very  sorry  for  him. 

RUPERT.  Of  course  she  is.  Pm  glad  she  is, 
and  I  trust  her.  I  admire  her  sympathy  for  him. 
98 


ACT    THREE 

CLARA  [distantly].  I  wonder  how  much  you 
know  of  Lois  or  of  any  other  young  girl. 

RUPERT  [slowly  and  distinctly}.  That's  un- 
worthy of  you,  Clara. 

CLARA  [returning  to  him,  gently].  Noj  listen. 
You  are  young:  that  is,  you  are  probably  so  busy 
enjoying  the  emotions  of  love  in  yourself  that  you 
have  hardly  time  to  notice  what  is  happening  in 
your  partner.  Oh,  I  know,  I  have  been  young  too. 
The  daily  spectacle  of  his  intellectual,  moral,  and, 
yes,  even  his  physical  strength  cannot  have  been 
without  its  effect  on  her.  Now,  when  his  mind  is 
almost  deranged,  his  moral  strength  shaken,  as  it 
appears  to  be,  his  very  physical  strength  itself  at 
the  stretch 

RUPERT.    But  Lois  knows  me,  and  loves  me  too. 

CLARA  [with  wistful  irony].  Young  men  are 
very  ready  to  take  the  love  of  young  women  for 
granted. 

RUPERT.    Pm  sure  she's  true. 

CLARA.  Pm  sure  she  is.     [She  smiles  brilliantly. 

RUPERT.  Somebody  ought  to  keep  an  eye  on 
him.  Especially  if  he  has  bought — what  you  say 
you  fear  he  has  bought  [he  nods  toward  the 
drawer] — but  I  daresay  it's  only  the  portrait  in 
there. 

CLARA.    We  shall  have  to  trust  to  Bryant. 

RUPERT.     Bryant's  noticed? 

CLARA.  Yes,  I  caught  him  watching  Oswald 
yesterday  through  that  [she  indicates  the  trap], 
but  he  explained  afterwards  that  he  thought  he'd 

99 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

seen  Oswald  playing  with  the  thing  he  keeps  in 
there  [nodding  at  the  drawer].  It  was  good  of 
him  to  tell  me. 

RUPERT.  Bryant'll  have  to  do.  Well,  I  must 
be  going.  Got  to  change  before  I  go  out  to  dinner 
at  the  Bassetts'.  [He  goes  to  conservatory  win- 
dow.} Hello,  Oswald's  on  the  lawn.  Shall  I  go 
out  and  speak  to  him? 

CLARA.  Perhaps  you'd  best  not.  Come  back  in 
half  an  hour  or  so  on  your  way  out  to  dinner. 

RUPERT.  He  must  have  seen  my  two-seater  in 
the  drive. 

CLARA.  I'll  say  you  came  to  see  Lois  and  are  in 
a  hurry.  [RUPERT  goes  out.  CLARA  'pats  her  hair. 
BENTLEY  looms  up.  CLARA  turns  and  stands  look- 
ing at  the  crucifix.  BENTLEY  peers  through  the 
glass  as  if  watching  for  somebody.  Then  he  comes 
in.  He  is  very  moody.  CLARA  turns.}  Well, 
Oswald,  had  a  nice  walk?  Where's  Lois? 

BENTLEY  [abstractedly].  Lois?  I  don't  know. 
I  thought  I  saw  her  in  the  distance  once:  just 
before  Paul  spoke  to  me  again.  [CLARA  starts. 
BENTLEY'S  walk  up  and  down  the  room  quickens; 
he  scowls.]  Clara! 

CLARA  [startled  at  his  tone].    Yes? 

BENTLEY.  Come  here.  [He  takes  her  by  the 
wrists.  ]  Now  swear,  swear  that  you'll  tell  me  the 
truth! 

CLARA  [calmly].     I  swear. 

BENTLEY.  I  have  seen  you  read  books  on 
physical  research.  [Intensely].  Do  you  know  of 
any  recorded  case  of  the  dead  having  power  over 
100 


ACT     THREE 

the  living,  power  in  the  sense  of  dominion,  fright- 
ful dominion? 

CLARA.  No,  Oswald,  I  do  not. 
BENTLEY  [almost  flinging  her  away].  Then 
He  is  torturing  me.  [He  rushes  and  stands  staring 
at  the  crucifix,  quivering  from  top  to  toe.  His 
hands  move  convulsively.  At  length,  jerking  his 
hand  toward  CLARA,  he  says  in  a  stifled  voice.] 
Do  you  see  that?  Is  it  He  or  I  hangs  there? 

CLARA  [gently].  Why  is  it  supposed  to  be  so 
beautiful?  [Taking  him  by  the  arm.]  It  always 
seems  wrong  to  me.  Does  a  crucified  really  hang 
his  head  like  that?  He  has  cried  "  It  is  finished." 
It  is  supposed  to  be  a  triumph.  But  He  hangs  His 
head.  It  looks  like  defeat.  [Pause.]  Shall  I  take 
it  away?  [She  stretches  toward  it. 

BENTLEY.  Don't  touch  it.  I'll  get  equal  with 
it  some  day. 

CLARA.    If  it's  hurting  you 

BENTLEY.  It  is  not  hurting  me.  It  can't  hurt 
me,  and  it  never  will. 

CLARA.     Then  you  wish? — What  would  you 
like  me  to  do  with  it?     [No  answer.]     Won't  you 
have  dinner  with  us  to-night  for  a  change?     Why 
not  leave  this  room  which  oppresses  you?     [Com- 
ing up  to  him.]    Won't  you  speak  to  me,  Oswald? 
[No  answer.    She  looks  as  if  she  is  going  to 
be  angry,  but  controls  herself  and  goes 
out.    BENTLEY  sits  down  at  the  desk  and 
buries  his  head  in  his  hands.     A   bell 
rings  of  in  the  pantry.    BRYANT,  pass- 
ing across,  is  about  to  disappear  when 

101 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

BENTLEY  looks  up.  Resolution  seems 
to  come  to  him.  He  stands  up,  "pulls  a 
-packet  out  of  his  'pockety  then  he  unlocks 
the  drawer  and,  opening  it,  takes  out  a 
revolver.  He  loads  and  lifts  the  -pistol 
casually  to  his  temple,  then  lowers  it  as 
if  considering.  He  hears  BRYANT  re- 
turning. BRYANT,  smiling  softly,  comes 
in.  BENTLEY  takes  a  quick  glance  over 
his  shoulder  and  sees  BRYANT.  Then, 
exclaiming  "  Not  my  turn — his,"  he 
faces  slowly  round  and,  trembling  vio- 
lently, covers  BRYANT,  whose  face  be- 
comes immobile. 

BENTLEY  [in  a  stifled  voice].  Come  closer. 
[BRYANT,  smiling  gently,  approaches.]  Let  me 
see  your  face  .  .  .  the  eyes  are  his  ...  I  am 
going  to  kill  you.  So  pray. 

BRYANT  [firmly,  but  compassionately].  It  is 
you  who  need  to  pray.  See  how  one  crime  leads  to 
another.  I  will  pray  for  you ! 

BENTLEY  [faltering}.     I  am  going  to  kill  you. 

BRYANT.     You  cannot  kill  that  which  does  not 

exist.      [Strangely.]     If  you  shoot  you  will  not 

kill  me,  for  I  am  the  Paul  Vyson  who  exists  in 

your  mind :    I  am  your  Conscience. 

BENTLEY  [putting  down  the  revolver  with  de- 
liberation]. Then  I  say  to  you,  go.  I  have  no 
conscience. 

BRYANT  [very  softly  and  distinctly].    Coward! 
BENTLEY.    What? 

BRYANT  [as  before].    Coward!     Coward! 
102 


ACT     THREE 

BENTLEY.    Take  care. 

[His  hand  moves  toward  the  revolver. 

BRYANT.  If  you  shoot  at  me  that  proves  you 
the  greatest  coward  of  all.  For  three  days  you 
have  avoided  me. 

BENTLEY  [in  savage  distress}.  For  what  have 
you  returned?  Tell  me,  are  you  living  or  dead? 
Why  should  you  dog  me?  If  you  are  not  cruelty 
incarnate,  turn  away  your  eyes  and  speak  to  me 
as  one  human  to  another,  if  human  you  are. 
[BRYANT  looks  at  him  more  gently.}  Speak.  Are 
you  not  Paul  Vyson? 

BRYANT  [in  a  changed  voice}.  There,  there! 
I  am  in  a  sense  Paul  Vyson,  though  I  care  not  to 
be  known  as  such.  He  died  in  prison.  Afterwards 
his  body  was  drowned.  Only  his  voice  now  lives. 

BENTLEY.     I  do  not  understand  you  .  .  . 

[He  sinks  into  his  chair. 

BRYANT.  It  is  quite  simple.  You  sent  me 
money  and  a  ticket  just  before  my  sentence  ex- 
pired. Lovely  are  the  works  of  God  and  marvel- 
lous His  judgements.  You  thought  to  be  rid  of 
me. 

BENTLEY.    I  sent  it  to  you  because  I  loved  you. 
[A  strange  expression  passes  over  BRYANT'S 
face. 

BRYANT  [quite  silently ,  and  with  no  apparent 
bitterness}.  After  you  had  ruined  me. 

BENTLEY.    I  ruined  you!    No.  It  was  necessity. 

BRYANT  [smiling  with  gentle  irony}.  Con- 
science hears  that  phrase  every  day.  [With  more 
sharpness  than  he  has  hitherto  shown.}  Through 

103 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

your  wickedness  I  became  a  convict.  I  lived  with 
the  brute,  the  degraded,  the  false.  The  false! 
[He  shudders.}  When  the  time  came  for  me  to 
go  out  into  the  world  again — into  a  world  now, 
owing  to  you,  exclusively  composed  of  enemies — 
another  man  went  with  me.  He  was  a  forger:  one 
of  the  cleverest  and  subtlest  criminals  then  living. 
He  was  in  for  a  small  crime — the  full  tale  of  his 
deeds  was  not  known  to  the  police,  and  now  never 
will  be.  I  gave  him  the  ticket  and  some  of  the 
money — your  ticket  and  your  money.  As  for  him 
— [sepulchrally]  you  know  where  he  lies. 

BENTLEY  [passionately].  And  so  an  innocent 
man  is  dead.  And  now  you  return  to  torment  me. 

BRYANT  [with  sudden  fire}.  To  torment  you! 
No!  To  save  you.  [With  august  deliberation.} 
I  have  had  a  revelation:  the  soul  is  judged  in  this 
world  and  can  be  saved  in  this  world.  I  have  come 
to  judge  and  save  you. 

BENTLEY.    You — to  judge  me! 

BRYANT  [quietly].  Why  not?  Who  is  juster 
— you  who  ruined  me,  or  I  who  would  save  you? 

BENTLEY.  We  can  only  judge  ourselves.  No 
man  can  judge  us. 

BRYANT.  What  judgement  did  you  not  allow 
the  Court  of  Law  to  pronounce  on  me?  And  is  it 
I  judging  you  now  or  your  own  Conscience? 

BENTLEY  [with  loathing].    But  you — you! 

BRYANT.  God  does  not  always  choose  the  lovely 
as  his  instruments,  or  even  the  good.  Remember 

Rahab 

104 


ACT     THREE 

BENTLEY.  How  long  have  you  been  reading 
the  Bible? 

BRYANT.  Seven  years:  my  sentence.  One 
learns  in  that  time,  in  such  a  place,  in  solitude  and 
sorrow.  I  scoffed  once:  I  believe  now.  Listen 
to  me:  I  come  to  you  from  God:  I  am  he  that 
was  dead  and  is  alive  through  Christ  Our  Lord. 

BENTLEY.  Through  Christ?  No,  no,  you  have 
nothing  to  do  with  Christ.  [  Turning  to  the  cruci- 
fix.]  O  infinite  compassion,  speak  to  me!  Coun- 
sel me,  is  this  your  messenger?  Will  you  not 
judge  me,  and  not  he?  [Pause,  shaking  his  head.] 
So  silent? 

BRYANT  [strangely}.  Perhaps  that  is  His  sen- 
tence: that  I  should  judge  you  and  not  He. 

BENTLEY  [looking  up].  Ah,  how  can  I  tell  if 
yours  be  the  tongue  of  an  angel  or  a  devil? 

BRYANT.  Doubt:  the  devil's  sin,  on  which  all 
sins  are  founded.  Believe  and  be  saved.  Doubt 
and  perish! 

BENTLEY  [passionately].  I  will  believe j  I  want 
to  believe,  but  in  my  soul  I  feel,  I  know,  you  are 
evil. 

BRYANT  [with  great  gentleness,  coming  and  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  BENTLEY'S  shoulder  as  he  crouches 
in  the  chair} .  "  Let  him  that  is  without  sin  cast 
the  first  stone  " — and  do  you  say  that  to  me? 

BENTLEY  [broken,  without  looking  up}.  Very 
well.  What  will  you  have  me  do? 

BRYANT  [gently  and  winningly}.  Confess. 
Confess  before  all:  not  alone  and  in  confidence  to 

105 


GUILTY     SOULS 

each  separately,  but  in  a  common  gathering — be- 
fore your  wife,  before  Lois,  before  Adderly — even 
as  you  fastened  the  crime  on  me  before  your  wife, 
before  Lois,  and  before  Adderly.  And  after  that 
you  shall  confess  in  a  Court  of  Law,  as  I  was  con- 
victed in  a  Court  of  Law.  Thus  only  can  you 
redeem  your  soul. 

BENTLEY  [stilly].    It  is  too  much.     I  will  not. 

BRYANT  {watching  him  narrowly].  What?  Is 
that  so  terrible?  Is  to  confess  and  put  right  the 
wrong  you  have  done  a  more  frightful  ordeal  than 
to  have  sentence  pronounced  on  you  for  a  deed 
you  never  did? 

BENTLEY.    No,  no,  I  cannot. 

BRYANT.  And  to  be  cast  into  prison — and — 
listen,  Bentley — to  lose  the  woman  you  love? 
[Pause.]  And  not  only  to  lose  her,  but  to  lose 
her  esteem?  All  that  happened  to  me. 

BENTLEY.  And  you  wish  the  same  for  me — 
prison,  the  loss  of  my  wife  and  her  esteem? 

BRYANT  [slowly].  I  do  not  wish  it.  It  is  the 
price.  With  that  measure  we  mete  withal 

BENTLEY  [frantically].  Stop  preaching!  Let 
me  go.  Let  me  go.  [Change  of  tone.]  Granted 
I  am  guilty — be  reasonable.  I  am  about  to  atone 
for  my  guilt  by  giving  away  all  I  possess. 

BRYANT.  All  that  you  gained,  in  fact,  by  ruin- 
ing me.  I  know  exactly  how  much  you  can  give: 
thirty  pieces  of  silver.  [More  softly. ]  And  after- 
wards Judas  went  out  and  hanged  himself? 

BENTLEY    [hoarsely].     Do   you   demand    my 
death? 
106 


ACT     THREE 

BRYANT.    No.    I  demand  your  salvation. 

[Silence. 

BENTLEY  [moodily].  I  will  be  rid  of  you. 
You  are  only  my  valet.  [He  moves  away. 

BRYANT.  No  man  can  be  rid  of  his  Conscience 
but  by  destroying  it,  and  that  [-pocketing  the 
revolver,  unseen  by  BENTLEY]  you  have  already 
failed  to  do.  Therefore,  choose  now — joy  and 
life  or  misery  and  the  death  of  the  sinner. 

BENTLEY.  I  am  too  weak.  {He  sinks  into  the 
chair  again.  ]  The  choice  is  not  mine.  It  is  forced 
upon  me. 

BRYANT.  Quarrel  not  with  the  instruments  of 
God,  but  do  His  bidding.  [Pause.}  Persist,  and 
live  in  the  torment  of  knowing  He  watches  you: 
obey,  and  be  at  peace.  [Silence. 

BENTLEY  [at  last}.    I  will  .  .  .  I  will  confess. 
[A  sound  like  a  sharp  sigh  escapes  BRYANT. 

BRYANT  [unsteadily}.  Are  you  sure?  Think 
what  it  will  cost. 

BENTLEY  [gloomily} .    It  must  be  done. 

BRYANT.    That  is  not  the  spirit  in  which  to  do  it. 

BENTLEY  [as  before}.    It  must  be  done. 

BRYANT.  Don't  be  in  a  hurry.  Think  what  it 
will  imply.  For  instance,  Lois  will  have  to  break 
her  engagement  with  young  Adderly. 

BENTLEY.    No. 

BRYANT.  Yes.  You  damaged  his  father — are 
you  now  to  damage  him?  Is  he  to  take  a  wife 
from  the  house  of  a  liar,  an  embezzler,  a  thief? 

BENTLEY.     If  he  loves  her. 

BRYANT.    Does  he?     Will  he  when  he  knows 

107 


GU  I  LTY     SOULS 

what  sort  of  man  his  partner  and  best  friend  was? 
[BRYANT  watches  him  closely. 

BENTLEY.    God  cannot  demand  such  a  thing. 

BRYANT.    What  do  the  guilty  know  of  God? 

BENTLEY.  But  I  can't :  she  is  the  messenger  of 
God  to  me. 

BRYANT.  As  such  would  she  not  have  you  con- 
fess? Would  she  stand  between  you  and  salvation? 
[Coming  closer.  Insidiously.]  If  she  knew  now 
would  she  not  bid  you  confess?  She  is  clean  and 
pure,  and  has  the  cruelty  of  that  which  is  clean  and 
pure.  She  would  make  you  confess.  And  she 
would  be  right.  [Pause.  BENTLEY  begins  to 
shiver.]  Might  she  not  even  denounce  you  for 
your  soul's  good?  Does  it  make  you  feel  better 
to  know  that  she  loves  and  trusts  you  and  believes 
in  the  good  in  you,  who  are  utterly  false?  Think 
of  her  beautiful  eyes  piercing  your  soul  with  their 
fearlessness  and  trust.  Think  of  her  gentleness, 
meekness,  honesty,  and  unutterable  goodness  of 
which  you  are  not  worthy.  [Very  softly.]  And 
yet  you  alone  are  to  suffer.  And  she  is  good  and 
she  is  not  to  suffer.  Will  she  not  welcome  the  op- 
portunity to  suffer  for  you — she  who  [with  the 
slightest  emphasis  on  the  -penultimate  word]  has 
loved  you  always  with  a  pure  love? 

BENTLEY  [muttering].  What  is  good  in  me, 
what  is  good  in  her  tortures  me.  [Dreamily,  with 
an  atrocious  expression.  ]  You  are  right.  It  is  her 
turn. 

BRYANT.    But 

BENTLEY.  Having  saved  me,  would  you  now 
108 


ACT     THREE 

stand  in  the  way  of  her,  of  my,  salvation?  Go, 
before  I  repent  of  the  choice  I  have  taken.  [BRY- 
ANT stands  as  if  amazed.  BENTLEY  advances  on 
him.}  Go.  Do  you  hear?  Go,  before  I  break 
every  bone  in  your  body — [quivering  with  dry 
rage} — you  phantom!  [He  laughs ,  grinding  his 
teeth.  BRYANT,  scared,  retires.  BENTLEY  ad- 
vances to  the  crucifix.  Addressing  it.}  Not  my 
will  but  Thy  will,  Thy  will,  eh?  Very  well.  It 
shall  be  done.  [In  a  low  intense  voice.}  But  I'll 
have  no  cross  over  my  grave  when  I  die  [with 
twitching  fingers  held  to  the  face  of  the  crucifix} 
— do  you  hear  that,  you  God  of  Love? 

[He  strides  to  the  fire  and  stands  looking 

down  into  it — his  eyes  glowering,  his 

head  sunk  between  his  shoulders,  his  feet 

wide  a-part,  his  hands  spread  stiffly  out 

as  if  he  wished  to  warm  them.     Lois 

comes  in  at  the  conservatory  doors. 

Lois  [to  attract  his  attention}.    Bryant  will  be 

late  for  the  post  if  he  doesn't  hurry.    I  passed  him 

in  the  drive.     [BENTLEY  turns.}     Why,  Oswald, 

what's  happened?      You  look  as  if  you'd  been 

struggling  with  a  devil. 

BENTLEY  [with  sour  humour}.  My  Conscience 
has  been  having  a  few  words  with  me. 

Lois.  Don't  mock:  it  isn't  like  you.  Your  eyes 
when  you  turned  were  wicked.  I  never  saw  them 
so  before.  [She  takes  of  her  hat.}  That's  better. 
[Going  u-p  to  him.}  You  look  so  ruffled.  There, 
be  calm,  my  dearest.  [She  lays  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder.}  Why  can't  you  meet  my  eyes?  [He 

109 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

keeps  turning  his  head  away.]     Come  now,  Os- 
wald, look  at  me. 

BENTLEY.  Lois,  do  you  love  me?  Will  you 
stick  to  me? 

Lois.  It  is  neither  kind  nor  necessary  to  ask, 
Oswald.  You  know  what  you  have  been  to  me. 
I  hope  you  feel  what  I  have  tried  to  be  to  you. 

BENTLEY  [rushing  at  her  and  seizing  her  by  the 
shoulders.  With  vehemence}.  If  you  don't,  I'm 
damned.  I  have  now  come  to  a  place  where  I 
stand  upon  a  razor  edge  with  an  abyss  on  each  side. 
[She  looks  at  him  long  and  searchingly.  He 
looses  her.  With  intensity.}  I  know  whither  I 
am  to  go,  but  the  razor  edge  I  cannot  see.  You 
shall  guide  me  along  it.  [Pause.  Sitting  down  in 
the  arm-chair.  ]  Let  it  be  as  it  was  three  days  ago. 
[He  motions  for  her  to  pull  the  footstool  across 
the  floor  and  seat  herself  by  him.  She  does  so. 
Finally  she  leans  against  him.  He  has  shut  his 
eyes  and  placed  his  left  hand  upon  her  shoulder.  ] 
You  have  been  happy  with  Clara  and  myself? 

Lois  [/ow].    Yes. 

BENTLEY.    You  have  been  happy  with  me? 

Lois.  Yes.  I  owe  you  everything.  [As  be- 
fore.} Goon. 

BENTLEY.  Clara  and  I  have  been  married  some 
time.  Marriage  is  not  always  all  that  we  think  it 
is  going  to  be. 

[He  leans  forward.     He  places  both  hands 
on  her  shoulders. 

Lois  [shrinking] .  Don't.  You  hold  me  so  tight. 
110 


ACT    THREE 

BENTLEY  [intensely].  I  must.  For  now  I 
must  speak. 

[Lois,  shakes  herself  free,  jumps  up,  and 
-faces  him. 

Lois  [clasping  her  hands].  Don't,  oh,  don't! 
Now  at  last  I  begin  to  be  afraid.  [Wringing  her 
hands.]  Say  it's  not  that!  Say  it's  not  that! 

BENTLEY  [staring  at  her].    What? 

Lois  [piteously].    Say  it's  not  that! 

BENTLEY.     You've  guessed ? 

Lois  [imploring].    Don't  say  you  love  me. 

BENTLEY  [half  out  of  chair,  almost  roaring  with 
pain].  Love  you?  [He  rises.]  Love  you? 

[He  glares  at  her. 

Lois.  I'll  do  anything  you  wish  if  you'll  only 
say  it's  not  that. 

BENTLEY.    You  would  do  something  for  me? 

Lois  [terrified].    Anything  but 

BENTLEY.    Give  up  Rupert. 

Lois.  You  have  said  it.  [She  rocks.]  Oh, 
Oswald,  I  love  you  so  much:  I  never  thought  you 
would  have  said  that. 

BENTLEY  [approaching  her].  Didn't  you  say 
three  days  ago,  as  you  sat  by  me  in  that  chair,  that 
you  could  do  anything  for  Rupert — you  could  die 
for  him?  It  is  for  his  good. 

Lois.  You  swear  it  is  for  his  good.  You  will 
not  benefit?  You  are  not  going  to  play  me  false? 

BENTLEY.  False?  No.  Listen.  Something 
has  happened,  something  has  been  discovered  that 
makes  it  imperative  that  you  should  give  him  up. 

Ill 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

It  is  an  affair  between  honour  and  dishonour,  and 
in  that  choice  involves  a  selection  between  my 
soul  and  his  love.  By  giving  him  up  you  will  save 
my  soul.  If  you  do  not  give  him  up  I  perish.  If 
you  do  I  am  saved.  I  swear  it  is  so. 

Lois  [fiery] .  And  who  inflicts  the  choice  on  me? 

BENTLEY.    God. 

Lois  [slowly].  No.  It  is  impossible.  God 
never  sets  us  more  than  we  are  able  to  perform. 

BENTLEY.  And  so  He  has  set  you  this — that 
out  of  your  magnanimity  you  might  choose  the 
harder.  The  proof  of  its  hardness  is  the  proof 
that  it  comes  from  God.  No  man  would  impose 
it.  God  alone  knowjs  the  capacity  of  our  hearts. 

Lois  [looking  at  himy  shaking  her  head].  Os- 
wald, Oswald,  you  are  breaking  my  heart. 

BENTLEY.    Would  you  break  his? 

Lois.  What  d'you  mean?  How  can  I  give  him 
up?  I  love  him.  Can't  you  understand  that? 

BENTLEY.  But  it  will  be  for  his  good.  I 
swear  to  you  it  will  be  for  his  good. 

Lois.  But  how,  how  will  it  be,  how  can  it  be 
for  his  good? 

BENTLEY.  I  cannot  now  explain.  Lois,  have 
pity  on  me.  Trust  me.  Give  him  up.  You  said 
yourself  we  are  none  of  us  entitled  to  happiness. 

Lois.    I  did  not  know  how  much  I  loved  him. 

BENTLEY.  If  you  love  him  you  must  die  for 
him.  You  swore  that  you  could  die  for  him.  It  is 
for  his  good. 

Lois.    You  swear  it  is  for  his  good?     You  are 
not  going  to  play  me  false? 
112 


ACT     THREE 

BENTLEY.  Play  you  false!  Have  I  ever  de- 
ceived your  [Falling  on  his  knees.  Savagely.} 
Give  him  up  till  to-morrow!  [Raising  his  hands.} 
I  swear  it  will  be  for  his  good. 

Lois  [intensely,  going  to  him  and  searching  his 
face  with  her  eyes} .  What  d'you  mean?  If  I  give 
him  up  it  must  be  at  once,  and  once  and  for  all. 

BENTLEY  [leaping  up].  The  moment  has 
come.  Consent,  consent. 

Lois  [shivering].  I  believe  you  when  you  say 
it  is  for  his  good.  There  is  something  here  that  I 
miss.  I  know  by  your  voice  that  you  speak  the 
truth.  I  see  by  your  eyes  that  you  will  not  harm 
me,  that  what  I  feared  worse  than  death  is  not 
moving  in  your  thoughts  .  .  .  but,  though  I  feel 
my  hour  has  come,  I  fear  I  boasted  of  what  I 
couldn't  perform!  I  can't  give  him  up,  though 
I  believe  it  is  for  his  good. 

BENTLEY  [snatching  her  wrist].  Lois,  God  de- 
mands it.  [She  stifles  a  shriek.  Terribly. ,] 
What  did  you  say  to  me  about  being  unwilling  to 
give  up?  Does  that  [indicating  the  crucifix}  mean 
nothing  to  you? 

Lois  [falling  on  her  knees  in  terror  before 
BENTLEY].  Ah,  don't  bring  that  into  it. 

BENTLEY  [loudly}.  I  must.  It  is  the  touchstone. 

Lois  [twisting  her  arms}.  Have  mercy!  Oh, 
have  mercy.  You  know  I  cannot  resist  it. 

BENTLEY  [wilder  and  wilder}.  Who  agreed 
with  me  that  between  heaven  and  hell  there  is  only 
this  life  in  which  to  do  right?  And  what  is  doing 
right  but  to  do  good  to  the  man  you  love?  What 

113 


GUI LTY     S  OULS 

is  right,  did  you  not  say,  but  learning  to  give  up? 
[Softly,  but  with  extraordinary  intensity,  holding 
his  hands  above  her  head  as  if  consecrating  a 
victim.  ]  Who  was  it  worshipped  a  Somebody  be- 
cause that  Somebody  knew  it  was  better  to  shed  His 
life  apparently  vainly  for  others  than  to  live 
selfishly? 

Lois  [faintly}.     Mercy  .... 

BENTLEY  [towering,  stretching  his  arms  apart, 
exalted,  in  a  clear,  calm  voice.}  Who  was  it  said 
she  believed  that  God  in  His  mercy  makes  us  de- 
spair, that  even  so  we  might  fall  into  His  arms 
ever  opened  for  us  upon  the  cross? 

[Silence.     BENTLEY  lowers  his  arms  and 
stands  tense,  watching  her. 

Lois  [her  head  bowed,  at  last,  humbly}.  For- 
give me,  Oswald.  [Lifting  her  voice.}  Yes,  my 
time  has  come.  I  have  been  happy  a  whole  two 
days:  that  is  too  long  for  a  God  who  suffers.  I 
am  willing  blindly  to  believe  it  will  be  for  his 
good.  You  say  it  will  be,  and  you  have  never  de- 
ceived me  yet.  It  is  true,  too,  that  we  have  no 
right  to  happiness.  We  transgress  to  think  we 
have,  since  He  [stretching  her  arm  out  toward  the 
crucifix  but  without  turning  her  head},  Who  per- 
fectly deserved  it,  never  claimed  it.  [She  rises.} 
Let  me  collect  myself. 

[She  walks  away  shuddering.     He  stares 
after  her. 

RUPERT  [without}.    Lois! 

[Lois  turns  swiftly.     She  is  calm,  'passion- 
less, almost  stern. 
114 


ACT    THREE 

Lois.    Go.    Rupert  is  coming. 

[BENTLEY  looks  at  her  as  if  stupefied.  Then 
he  goes  out  by  the  door  to  the  right. 
Lois  walks  a  little  way  forward  and 
stands  perfectly  still.  Her  eyes  are 
closed,  her  lips  move.  There  is  a  step  in 
the  conservatory.  RUPERT,  in  evening 
dress  covered  by  an  overcoat,  appears. 
He  comes  very  cheerfully  through  the 
conservatory  doors. 
RUPERT.  Lois — at  last! 

[He  makes  toward  her  as  though  to  kiss  her 
.  .  .  but    she    avoids    him    and    goes 
abruptly  to  the  door  on  the  right. 
Lois.    We'd  best  turn  the  lights  up. 

[She  turns  up  the  light. 

RUPERT.  I  tried  for  you  earlier  in  the  evening. 
I'm  going  on  out  to  dinner.  Pve  only  got  a  minute 
or  two  .  .  . 

Lois.    It  will  be  sufficient. 
RUPERT.     Eh?     What's  up?     [He  advances.} 
You  look  pale. 

Lois.    Don't,  stay  where  you  are. 
RUPERT.    What  is  it — nothing  serious? 
Lois  [change  of  tone}.    Stand  with  your  back 
to  that  table,  Rupert.     [He  does  so.]     I'm  going 
to  shoot  you.     Oh,  no;  not  really.     [Change  of 
tone.}     You  didn't  really  love  me  in  the  garden, 
did  you,  Rupert?     [Piteously.}     Say  you  didn't. 

RUPERT.     Lois,  what  sort  of  man  d'you  think 

I  am?  [He  chokes. 

Lois  [shaking  her  head}.    Pm  afraid  you  did 

115 


GUILTY    SOULS 

then.  We  have  no  right  to  happiness.  [She 
raises  her  right  hand  as  if  she  were  going  to  shoot.  ] 
It  will  go  through  your  heart.  [Steadily.}  Listen: 
I  won't  marry  you.  That's  final.  [Drop-ping  her 
arm.]  Forgive  me. 

RUPERT  [blazing].  Why  torture  me?  Why 
not  fire  a  real  bullet  and  have  done?  Come,  you 
can't  mean  it.  [Slowly.]  It  was  a  joke.  [She 
remains  silent ,  slowly  shaking  her  head.  ]  It  can't 
be  over  already.  What  d'you  mean?  Why  can't 
you  marry  me? 

Lois.   I  didn't  say  I  couldn't.    I  said  I  wouldn't. 

RUPERT.  But  why  won't  you  marry  me? 
Come,  say  it's  a  mood.  Have  I  offended  you  by 
not  seeing  you  for  three  days?  It's  not  my  fault. 
Bentley's  condition  prevented  it:  I  had  to  do  all 
his  work  .  .  .  Why  won't  you  say  something? 
What's  come  over  you? 

Lois  [as  if  weary].  I've  discovered  I  won't 
marry  you.  Don't  ask  questions,  or  you  may  force 
me  to  tell  lies.  I  tell  you  this  thing  can't  be  any 
different  from  what  it  is.  I've  treated  you  badly. 
Let  it  go  at  that.  Try  to  forgive  me  if  you  can. 

RUPERT.    But  why?     Why?     Why? 

Lois.  We  have  no  right  to  happiness.  It's  only 
given  us  for  a  moment,  that  we  may  show  what  we 
are  capable  of. 

RUPERT.    Then  you  do  love  me? 

Lois.  Do  you  wish  me  to  deny  it?  I  asked  you 
to  ask  no  questions. 

RUPERT.    Lois,  I've  loved  you  ever  since  I  saw 
you  that  morning  in  Bentley's  office. 
116 


ACT     THREE 

Lois  [in  a  low  tone].  I  know,  Rupert,  I  know. 
Yes,  it  was  in  Bentley's  office.  Don't  recall  it. 

RUPERT.  That's  seven  and  more  years  ago  now. 
I  loved  you  then.  I  love  you  still.  I  only  want 
to  know  why. 

Lois  [at  lastt  automatically  ] .  It  is  for  your  own 
good,  Rupert. 

RUPERT.  I  don't  understand  you.  I  think  it's 
a  mood.  Perhaps  I'd  best  go. 

[He  makes  as  if  to  go. 

Lois.  Once  you  pass  through  these  doors 
[•pointing  to  the  conservatory]  it  will  be  final. 

[He  stops. 

RUPERT  [coming  back}.  You  don't  really  mean 
it,  Lois?  Be  reasonable.  Why  should  this  be  so? 

Lois.    We  must  give  up. 

RUPERT.  It's  a  whim.  You've  got  some  self- 
sacrificing  idea  in  your  head.  You've  got  some 
silly  notion  about  not  being  fit  or  something.  I 
know  I  felt  dreadfully  unworthy  all  day  before  I 
asked  you.  [Silence.]  Or  it's  something  in  cir- 
cumstances: you  think  that  having  been  practically 
in  the  position  of  an  orphan  .  .  . 

Lois.  There's  no  explanation.  I  just  won't 
marry  you — that's  all.  [Silence. 

RUPERT  [sadly].  Don't  be  proud,  Lois.  Ac- 
knowledge that  was  it.  [Silence.  With  sudden 
vehemence.]  By  Heaven,  it  is  though!  What 
was  it  Clara  said?  I've  got  it.  You've  been  talk- 
ing to  Bentley.  [She  starts. 

Lois.    That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

RUPERT.    It  has.    He  told  you  what  he's  told 

117 


GUILTY     SOULS 

Clara  and  which  Clara  told  me.  He's  going  to 
give  away  his  money — every  penny  of  it. 

Lois  [suddenly].    What? 

RUPERT.  He's  going  to  give  away  every  penny. 
That's  it.  Isn't  it? 

Lois  [slowly].    Yes.     That's  it. 

RUPERT.    And  you 

Lois.    Well? 

RUPERT.  Don't  force  me  to  put  it.  [She  smiles 
oddly.]  Well,  you  haven't  anything. 

Lois  [in  a  reverie}.  Not  even  love.  \She 
sighs.  Aloud. \  I  owe  the  Bentleys  everything. 
Without  them  I  am  nothing. 

RUPERT.    Yes? 

Lois.    Well?    Say  it. 

RUPERT.  What  has  come  over  you?  Are  you 
too  proud  to  acknowledge  your  foolishness?  Do 
smile!  Can't  you  see  how  silly  it  is? 

Lois.    What? 

RUPERT.  Must  I  say  it?  Forgive  me.  You 
think  you  won't  marry  me  because  you  fear  people 
will  say  you're  marrying  me  for  my  money — that 
you  are  getting  out  of  a  difficult  situation,  because 
you've  learned  since  you  accepted  me  that  Bent- 
ley's  going  to  give  away  every  penny.  [Lois 
nods.}  But  it's  not  fair.  I  know  you  love  me. 

Lois.  Do  you?  How  can  you  see  into  my 
heart?  I  asked  you  not  to  make  me  tell  lies.  What 
I  pretended  just  now  about  having  no  explanation 
was  a  lie.  But  I  was  ashamed  to  tell  you  the  truth. 
I  was  indeed  going  to  marry  you  for  your  money 
all  along.  I  have  no  position  with  the  Bentleys. 
118 


ACT     THREE 

Pm  fond  of  them,  of  course,  but  dependence  on 
people  doesn't  make  one  any  fonder.  And  I  like 
you.  You  are  simple.  I  was  going  to  marry  you 
for  your  money  all  right  .  .  .  only  at  the  last 
minute  .  .  .  besides,  now  Bentley's  giving  away 
his  money  it's  too  obvious — even  for  me.  That's 
the  truth}  so  now  you  know.  Hurt  me,  please: 
I  deserve  it. 

RUPERT  [hotly].    It  is  not  the  truth. 

Lois.  Very  well :  it  is  not  the  truth.  You  know 
better  than  I,  of  course. 

RUPERT.     I  don't  believe  it — I 

Lois.  Don't  wound  me  by  turning  this  into  a 
wrangle.  I  have  told  you  the  truth.  I  was  going 
to  marry  you  for  your  money.  I  intended  to  do 
so  from  the  first.  But  in  the  end  I  couldn't  quite 
manage  it.  Please  go. 

RUPERT.  You  know  what  you've  just  said. 
You  really  mean  that? 

Lois.    You'll  be  late  out  to  dinner. 

RUPERT.  Am  I  to  leave  the  house  thinking 
that?  It's  entirely  contrary  to  your  nature.  I 
don't  believe  Bentley  will  give  away  his  money. 
There  must  be  another  reason. 

Lois.     I  have  given  you  the  reason. 

RUPERT  [slowly].  No,  there  is  another.  [In 
sudden  despair,  abruptly.]  No:  my  luck's  out. 
I  don't  please  you — he's  a  magnetic  man.  I  see 
it  now:  you  have  a  passion  for  Bentley. 

Lois  [drawing  away  to  the  very  wall  of  the 
room  in  horror ,  brokenly].  Who  suggested  that? 
You'd  never  think  that  yourself.  It's  not  you. 

119 


GUI  LTY     SOULS 


RUPERT.    Clara  said- 


Lois  [stung].  Clara!  [Slowly.]  What  did 
Clara  say? 

RUPERT.  She  said  all  that  was  best  in  you  might 
impel  you  to  the  worst. 

Lois  [covering  her  face].  Oh,  cease  torturing 
me  and  go — go! 

[She  gestures,  weakly.  But  he  does  not  go. 
He  remains  staring  at  her. 

RUPERT  [•painfully}.    Then  it  is  true? 

Lois  [advancing].  Do  you  believe  that?  For, 
if  you  do,  you  have  lost  me  anyway.  [He  moves 
toward  the  conservatory  doors,  looking  over  Ms 
shoulder,  appalled  at  the  rum  he  has  caused}.  I 
think  you  do.  [She  stops,  leaning  on  one  hand  on 
the  table,  looking  at  him  as  he  stands  by  the  con- 
servatory doors.]  You  used  the  word  "  passion," 
speaking  of  Bentley  and  me.  Passion!  [He  opens 
the  door.]  Ah,  God!  when  I  sought  a  cross  I  was 
too  presumptuous.  I  forgot  the  humiliation.  I 
did  not  see  that  I  should  be  mocked  when  crucified. 
Go  now.  Go.  I  want  never  to  see  you  again. 

[He  goes.  Lois  leans  her  head  against  the 
wall  by  the  doors.  CLARA,  entering 
quickly  jrom  the  right,  stops  short. 

CLARA.  Lois,  quick!  Oswald's  in  such  a  state. 
[Pause.]  Lois,  dear,  Pm  speaking  to  you.  I 
thought  perhaps  you  .  .  .  [On  the  verge  of 
sharpness.}  Lois,  listen:  he's  nearly  raving  .  .  . 
will  you  do  nothing  for  him? 

[Lois  suddenly  turns  round  with  a  gesture  to 
120 


ACT     THREE 

CLARA  to  be  silent.    BENTLEY'J  voice  is 
heard. 
BENTLEY  [without}.    Lois,  Lois! 

[Lois  wrenches  the  conservatory  doors  open 

and  escapes. 

CLARA  [in  stupefaction].  Lois,  where  are  you 
going? 

[BENTLEY  enters  from  the  right.     He  has 

a  mad  look. 

BENTLEY  [low,  savagely].  No,  no,  I  tell  you, 
that  is  not  the  truth.  You  lie.  You  are  a  devil. 
God  does  not  require  it. 

CLARA  [clutching  the  lapels  of  his  coat].  Os- 
wald, recollect  yourself.  Be  calm.  Listen:  I 
came  in  and  found  Lois  by  these  doors.  When  I 
spoke  to  her  she  wouldn't  answer.  She  gave  me 
one  look  and  went. 

BENTLEY  [vacantly].    What?    What?     [Hand 
to  head.]     Lois  .  .  .  where? 
CLARA.    Out  into  the  garden. 
BENTLEY.     Was  anyone  with  her  when  you 
came  in? 

CLARA.  I  think  I  heard  Rupert's  voice,  but  Pm 
not  sure.  He  wasn't  here  when  I  came  in. 
Oswald,  she  looked  so  desperate. 

BENTLEY  [passionately].  She  shall  not!  She 
shall  not,  I  say!  [He  opens  the  doors.]  Lois! 
[No  answer.  Louder.]  Lois! 

CLARA.  If  anything  should  happen  to  her. 
You  know  how  high-strung  she  is. 

[BENTLEY  goes  into  the  conservatory. 

121 


GUILTY     SOULS 

BENTLEY  [in  conservatory y  shouting],    Lois! 
[No  answer.     BENTLEY  returns  from  the 
conservatory  and  all  but  closes  the  doors. 
His  lips  are  compressed.    He  shakes  his 
head. 

CLARA.  I  think  I'll  put  on  a  coat  and  go  after 
Rupert — if  it  was  Rupert — and  try  to  bring  him 
back. 

BENTLEY  [absently],     I  thought  you  told  me 
in  the  drawing-room  that  he'd  gone  out  to  dinner. 
CLARA.    So  he  has.    To  the  Bassetts'. 
BENTLEY    [as  before].     Eh?   .  .  .  You  can't 
invade  .  .  . 

CLARA.    I  shall  have  to. 

[She  goes  out  to  the  right.    BENTLEY  goes 
toward  the  conservatory  doors;  then,  as 
if  a  thought  comes  to  himy  he  stops  short 
and  strides  into  the  pantry.    He  returns , 
driving  BRYANT  before  him. 
BENTLEY    [menacingly}.     You    were    in    that 
room.    The  hatcfi  is  ajar.    Tell  me :  was  Lois  talk- 
ing with  Rupert? 

BRYANT  [strangely].  How  do  you  know  I  was 
in  that  room? 

BENTLEY.    Was  she,  or  was  she  not? 
BRYANT  [mysteriously].    Perhaps  she  was  talk- 
ing to  me. 

BENTLEY.    To  you! 

BRYANT.  Why  not?  Who  is  it  will  effect  your 
salvation  if  not  I  and  she? 

BENTLEY.    What  have  you  told  her? 
BRYANT.    What  would  you  have  me  tell  her? — 
122 


ACT     THREE 

that,  for  instance,  you  are  a  liar,  a  thief,  a  per- 
jurer, a  miner  of  many  lives 

BENTLEY.    What  did  you  do? 

BRYANT.     I  worked  for  your  salvation. 

BENTLEY.  My  salvation!  My  salvation !  Man 
alive,  standing  there  looking  so  grave  and  gentle, 
what  do  I  care  about  my  salvation?  My  salvation 
is  her  damnation. 

BRYANT.  Is  it  so  late  you  learn  that  one  crime 
brings  on  another  and  that  the  penalty  is  paid  not 
only  by  the  guilty?  O  Bentley,  Bentley,  when  you 
ruined  me,  why  did  you  not  pause  to  think  of  that? 

BENTLEY.  Spare  your  words.  Drive  your 
hook  no  further  into  my  side.  There  is  the  tele- 
phone. Summon  the  police.  Denounce  me  now 
yourself  and  have  done. 

BRYANT  [slowly,  lifting  his  hand].  It  lies  not 
with  another  to  save  a  fellow  soul.  Only  yourself 
can  save  yourself. 

BENTLEY  [advancing  a  'pace  or  two,  leaning  on 
the  table  with  one  arm,  stretching  out  the  other] . 
Let  me  make  a  bid.  If  I  give  up  all  the  wealth  I 
possess  and  confess  to  my  wife? 

BRYANT.  "  They  parted  my  vesture  between 
them,  upon  my  garments  did  they  cast  lots."  No. 

BENTLEY.  If,  besides  this,  I  disappear?  [BRY- 
ANT shakes  his  head.  ]  But,  man  alive,  think  what 
that  will  mean!  I  shall  forfeit  all  this  life  [ges- 
turing at  the  room],  I  shall  never  see  Clara,  I 
shall  never  see  Lois  again.  [Pause.]  You  waver. 
...  I  have  won.  That  is  it ! 

BRYANT  [suddenly  blazing  up].  Insult  not  the 

123 


GUILTY     SOULS 

Most  High!  God  does  not  bargain.  He  has  his 
price  for  each  soul.  Hell  gapes  for  those  who 
cannot  pay  it.  Remorse  is  not  enough.  Now  you 
must  know  terror,  and  that  intimate  oppression  of 
shame  which  is  worse  than  any  terror.  [Change 
of  voice.  ]  When  I  rose  from  the  dead  to  come  to 
you  I  was  not  of  the  same  form  as  when  I  went 
down  into  the  tomb.  Seven  years  I  spent  in  the 
tomb.  In  the  tomb  we  remember.  We  learn  the 
power  for  good  or  ill  of  remembrance.  And  I 
return  to  you  in  the  figure  of  the  most  potent  and 
mysterious  of  all  spiritual  beings.  Look  well  at 
me.  [Advancing  and  leaning  forward  over  the 
table  so  that  his  chin  is  nearly  on  the  cloth.}  My 
name  is  Memory.  There  comes  a  term  to  all  our 
bravery,  caper  it  how  we  may.  At  that  term's  end, 
even  though  you  be  lying  in  your  death-bed,  with 
the  grave  gaping  beside  you,  you  must  front  this 
presence,  face  this  face.  [Pause.  Leaning  up- 
ward and  forward,  almost  whispering.]  What 
have  you  to  say  to  it? 

BENTLEY  [summoning  all  his  strength,  lifting 
his  fists  above  his  head].  I  say  to  it  that  I  will 
never  submit.  Let  come  damnation — if  come  it 
must.  As  to  salvation — the  price  is  too  great.  I 
will  not  pay  it.  Go  back  to  your  Master  in  heaven 
or  hell  and  tell  him  that! 

[He  thrusts  both  hands  into  his  coat  pockets 
and  drives  BRYANT  before  him.  BRYANT 
slips  out  to  the  pantry.  BENTLEY  goes 
to  the  light  by  the  door  and  switches  it 
offy  saying,  moodily,  "  Sheer  darkness 
124 


ACT     THREE 

now —  "     The  glowering  dusk  can  be 

seen  without.     BENTLEY  wanders  back 

and  forth  but  is  gradually  drawn  toward 

the  desk.     He  leans  forward  over  it  on 

tip-toe,  breathing  heavily. 

BENTLEY  [in  a  ghostly  voice} .    Are  you  so  still? 

What,     dead     already?      Have     I     triumphed? 

[Striking  a  match.}     Let  me  see  Thee,  O  mine 

Enemy!      [He  holds  the  match  near  the  crucifix. 

Then  he  lights  the  candles.     He  sits  down  and 

stares  at  the  crucifix.     Slowly  and  sadly.}     I  am 

sorry  for  Thee,  poor  faithful  one.    Thy  face  was 

never  more  beautiful  than  it  is  now.     And  Thou 

hast  died  in  vain.     [The  conservatory  doors  open 

very  gently  and  then  close.     Lois  hus  come  in. 

She  stands  as  if  exhausted,  with  her  arms  spread 

along  the  T  of  the  glass  door.    Standing  thus  she 

has,  as  she  glimmers  against  the  very  last  of  the 

dim  red,  bleak  afterglow,  suddenly  the  appearance 

of  one  crucified.    BENTLEY  slowly  looks  up.    Then 

he  half  rises.     In  fear.}      Ahhrrr! 

Lois  [stilly}.     It's  finished. 

[Her  head  falls  forward. 

BENTLEY  [gazing  at  her,  then  at  the  crucifix, 
and  back  at  her}.  Clara  was  wrong.  The  head 
does  fall  forward.  [  To  the  crucifix  again,  with  a 
great  cry.]  Who  shall  escape  God?  [Lois,  un- 
seen by  him,  has  stumbled  out  by  the  door  to  the 
right.  BENTLEY  turns,  with  arms  flung  wide.} 
Hozannah!  You  have  saved  me.  What,  gone? 
A  vision?  [To  the  crucifix .]  Though  Thou  dost 

slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  Thee.    Now [He 

125 


GU I LTY     SOULS 


rushes  and  locks  the  door  to  right. \  To  work! 
To  work!  [He  sits  down  and  'pulls  out  sheets  of 
paper.]  The  night  is  far  spent.  Joy  cometh  in 
the  morning. 

[He  settles  down  to  write  at  the  desk. 


QUICK   CURTAIN 


126 

.-• 


ACT   FOUR 


ACT   FOUR 

The  following  morning.  Frosty  sunshine  behind 
the  conservatory.  Everything  very  still  and  noth- 
ing stiller  than  the  form  of  BRYANT,  standing  by 
the  'pantry  door  watching  BENTLEY,  who  sprawls  in 
uneasy  slumber  over  his  desk  littered  with  -papers. 
The  candles  have  burned  low.  They  continue 
alight  throughout  the  act.  Without-doors  a  black- 
bird is  singing,  and  from  far  away  floats  the  sound 
of  church  bells.  BENTLEY  stirs  in  his  sleep. 
BRYANT  makes  a  move  as  if  to  go,  and  then  glides 
across  to  take  up  a  position  directly  behind  BENT- 
LEY.  BENTLEY  cries  in  his  sleepy  and  the  sobs,  as 
is  usual  in  adults  crying  in  their  sleep,  take  on  a 
curiously  child-like  quality. 

BRYANT  [whispering].  Cry,  baby!  Cry,  baby! 
Time  was  when  7  did  that. 

[BENTLEY  moves  and,  yet  asleep,  lifts  his 
head,  smiles,  clasps  his  hands  and 
stretches  them  out.  Then,  with  a  shiver- 
ing motion,  as  if  deathly  cold,  awakes 
and  turns  in  his  chair  so  that  he  faces 
the  front  of  the  fire,  which  has  gone  out. 
His  head  falls  forward.  He  glances  un- 
easily from  side  to  side.  His  teeth 
chatter. 

BENTLEY  [shivering].  What!  Still  here?  Still 
living?  The  price  yet  to  pay?  [In  reverie,  while 
the  tears  continue  to  course  down  his  face.]  I  slept 
and  I  dreamed  it  was  accomplished — I  wept — my 
heart  was  breaking — there  came  a  silent  angel, 
with  a  hidden  face,  who  I  think  was  Lois,  and  laid 
her  hands  upon  my  breast  [he  winces,  and  sadly 

129 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

shakes  his  head} — one  gush  of  flame  and  it  was  all 
over — we  ascended  face  to  face !  A  dream !  The 
deed  is  still  to  do — and,  though  she's  crucified,  I 
cannot  do  it — a  dream,  a  vision — and  yet  face  to 
face! 

BRYANT  [leaning  forward ,,  sadly].  Face  to 
face,  indeed.  The  crucifier  and  his  crucified! 

[BENTLEY  flings  round  in  his  chair  and 
strikes  at  BRYANT. 

BRYANT  [stepping  back  a  pace].  Softly,  softly. 
You  must  not  strike  me.  I  am  not  one  of  those 
crucified  for  your  salvation. 

BENTLEY.    Fiend!     Fiend! 

BRYANT.  Do  you  call  me  fiend?  I  call  you 
Judas.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Judas.  Do  you  weep 
for  her?  Go  and  kiss  her  on  the  cheek — Judas, 
Judas! 

BENTLEY.    Judas,  is  it? 

[He  advances  threateningly. 

BRYANT  [calmly  and  sadly].  Bentley,  you  are 
throwing  away  your  soul. 

BENTLEY  [stopping].  Let  me  throw  it  then:  I 
am  content  to  lose  it  by  attributing  too  much  mercy 
to  God.  In  that  desk  there  [pointing  to  the  wri- 
ting-table] lies  a  statement.  I  have  spent  the  night 
upon  it.  When  I  began  it,  influenced  by  her  ex- 
ample, I  thought  there  could  be  but  one  termina- 
tion to  my  suffering — to  confess  before  God  and 
man.  But  I  see  I  have  fallen  into  your  trap.  I 
have  crucified  her  and  I  have  sinned  by  doubting 
the  mercy  of  God.  I  thought  I  was  bankrupt:  but 
I  find  I  have  one  more  card  to  play — that  very 
130 


ACT     FOUR 

soul's  salvation  you  proffer  me.  From  the  tree,  on 
which  she  is  nailed,  will  I  take  her  down.  It  is  I, 
not  she,  shall  lie  in  the  sepulchre.  You  have  called 
me  Judas.  Let  me  finish  as  Judas  finished.  You 
gave  me  the  choice  of  death  or  deliverance.  "  I 
am  your  Conscience,"  you  said,  "  and  I  do  not  quit 
you  till  you  either  die  or  confess."  I  take  my 
choice  and  I  choose  death. 

[He  turns  and  jerks  open  a  drawer  in  the 
writing-table. 

BRYANT.  Poor  fool!  [BENTLEY  turns.]  Do 
you  think  you  can  outwit  God?  [He  runs  to  the 
farther  end  of  the  table,  'pulling  a  chair  out  as  he 
goes.  Then  he  whips  the  revolver  from  his  -pocket 
and  holds  it  aloft.  In  ecstasy.]  See — loaded  in 
every  chamber:  Death!  Salvation!  Rest!  Peace! 
Eternal  silence! 

[BENTLEY  rushes  at  him.     BRYANT  imme- 
diately covers  him.    BENTLEY  hesitates. 

BENTLEY.  Well  then,  shoot,  man,  and  have 
done! 

BRYANT  [/«  cold  scorn].    Not  I! 

BENTLEY.    Shoot :  be  merciful ! 

BRYANT.  Ah,  Bentley,  Bentley,  now  at  last  you 
see  quite  clearly  what  you  want,  and  you  are  right. 
Let  me  hold  my  treasure  up.  [BENTLEY,  fasci- 
nated,  watches  him.  BRYANT  lifts  the  revolver 
with  a  slow,  hieratic  gesture.}  Worship  it,  Bent- 
ley  j  bow  before  it — the  beautiful,  the  unattainable! 
Here  hides  the  flame  that  licks  all  clean! 
Here  lurks  the  bolt  that  can  carry  the  hapless  to 
the  land  of  darkness!  No  more  sin,  Bentley,  and 

131 


GUILTY     SOULS 

so  no  more  pain.  Death!  death!  death! — answer 
of  every  riddle,  solution  of  all  cruxes!  [Change 
of  tone.}  Look  well  at  it,  Bentley.  [Lowering 
his  hands  and  holding  the  revolver  forward  in  the 
palms  of  his  hands.  ]  I  hold  it  in  my  hands.  How 
small,  how  black,  how  beautiful  it  is — made  like  a 
watch — and  when  it  strikes  there  is  a  period  put  to 
the  tyranny  of  life's  galling  hour!  You  would 
like  it?  Ah,  you  want  it,  Bentley,  do  you?  You 
yearn  for  it:  it  is  so  pretty:  such  an  honest  little 
plaything.  It  deals  justly  by  those  who  use  it.  It 
is  a  fair  partner.  Not  like  you,  Bentley.  It  kills 
once  for  all,  and  so  delivers  once  for  all.  It  does 
not  kill  and  yet  leave  alive.  When  once  it  has 
spoken  the  body  falls  never  to  rise  again.  It 
breeds  no  ghosts,  Bentley.  [Advancing  softly.] 
Feed  your  eyes  upon  it,  Bentley:  you — are — not — 
going — to — have  it.  [BENTLEY,  slowly  leaning 
forward,  stretches  out  his  hand  .  .  .  ]  Oh,  no,  it's 
too  great  a  luxury  for  a  man  as  rich  in  crime  as 
you:  a  liar,  a  swindler,  a  destroyer!  See  how  it 
shines!  [BRYANT  holds  it  up.]  It  is  dearer  to 
you  now  than  anything  in  the  world  j  but  I  will 
not  give  it  to  you,  no,  not  though  you  fall  on  your 
knees  to  me  as  I  did  in  that  office  eight  years  ago 
to  you.  [BENTLEY  gapes,  his  eyes  seem  starting 
out  of  his  head  as  they  devour  BRYANT'S  face.] 
Three  times  I  called  upon  you,  Bentley,  and 
thrice  I  got  no  answer.  You  broke  my  heart  then. 
God  be  thanked — I  am  breaking  yours  now! 

BENTLEY  [gradually  straightening  himself  up, 
slowly}.  I  look  at  you  and  I  see  you  as  you  are. 
132 


ACT     FOUR 

Poor,  poor  Vyson.     Is  this  your  last  resort — to 
blaspheme  God? 

BRYANT  [taken  abacky  faintly}.  What  d'you 
mean? 

BENTLEY.  Alas,  poor  friend,  you  sought  to  do 
evil,  and  you  can  only  do  well. 

BRYANT  {covering  him  unsteadily}.  Don't 
anger  me. 

BENTLEY  [as  before} .  Shoot  if  you  wish.  I  see 
that,  guilty  as  I  am,  I  am  less  guilty  than  you. 
And  I  grieve  for  you. 

BRYANT  [hushedly}.  What  has  come  to  you? 
{He  lowers  the  revolver.}  Have  I  turned  your 
wits  as  you  turned  mine?  If  so,  then  I  am  sadly 
cheated. 

[With   a   look   of   genuine  pity   he   offers 
BENTLEY  the  revolver. 

BENTLEY  [disregarding  the  offer}.  No:  it  is 
I  have  come  to  my  wits  and  see  you  so  clearly  at 
last  that  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul  I  grieve  for 
you.  Put  that  thing  away.  Face  something  more 
terrible  than  murder.  [BRYANT,  watching  BENT- 
LEY'S  face  with  a  sort  of  hypnotic  attention^  auto- 
matically restores  the  revolver  to  his  pocket.} 
Listen;  you  have  sought  to  circumvent  God.  You 
came  here  for  your  revenge.  You  made  your 
heart  strong.  But  merciful  is  God  and  omnipotent 
— nothing  can  stand  against  Him,  not  my  weak- 
ness or  your  strength.  I  understand  it  all  now — 
you  came  to  torture  me  and  to  gloat  over  my  tor- 
ture. [Pause.  He  watches  BRYANT'S  face.}  I 
see  I  have  spoken  true.  [Change  of  tone.}  To 

133 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

torture  me  you  blasphemed:  taking  the  figure  and 
name  of  my  Conscience.  That  is  your  sin.  And 
God  has  dealt  with  you  according  to  your  sin.  Out 
of  every  evil  God  creates  good.  He  has  frustrated 
your  evil — by  taking  you  at  your  word.  You  have 
become  my  Conscience,  and  that  Conscience1  is 
driving  me  to  good.  Revenge!  Revenge!  A  lit- 
tle word,  a  small  word,  a  mean  word:  how  power- 
less before  the  magnanimity  of  God!  Ah,  Vyson, 
God  performs  miracles  every  day!  I  knew  not 
good  till  I  had  done  evil.  So  it  will  be  with  you. 
Even  you  will  He  save. 

BRYANT  [agitated].  No,  No!  What  are  you 
saying?  What  are  you  doing?  Would  you  de- 
stroy me  twice? 

BENTLEY  [calmly,  but  with  dee'p  conviction}. 
You  and  I — we  guilty  souls — we  shall  see  God. 
Even  now  the  miracle  goes  forward. 

BRYANT  [uneasily].  Words,  words.  You're 
philosophising.  .  .  . 

[He  makes  as  if  to  go  toward  the  gantry  door.] 

BENTLEY.  Escape!  Why  are  you  so  pale? 
.  .  .  Why  do  you  tremble  .  .  .?  Is  truth  so 
frightful  .  .  .?  Is  it  so  hard  a  thing  to  face  God? 

BRYANT  [advancing].  I  tremble,  do  I?  You 
think  I  am  afraid — I  who  have  undergone  all 
pangs  of  death  but  dissolution!  Learn,  then:  you 
lie  [with  contorted  face] — there  is  no  God! 

BENTLEY.  He  must  be  very  near  you  for  you 
to  deny  Him  with  such  vehemence. 

BRYANT.    Ah,  I  could  tear  your  heart  out  and 
stamp  it  into  fragments! 
134 


ACT     FOUR 

BENTLEY.  Hark,  how  we  would  torture  others 
that  we  might  escape  our  own  torture!  [Shaking 
his  head  sadly.  ]  I  know — wasn't  it  when  I  was  in 
just  such  a  state  that  in  your  perversity  you  suc- 
ceeded in  making  me  torture  Lois?  We  fly  from 
pleasure  to  despair,  and  from  despair  to  cruelty: 
but  all  in  vain.  Feed,  then,  on  the  disillusion  of 
your  pleasure,  your  despair,  your  cruelty.  Press 
the  spines  of  torture  into  your  heart.  God's  ad- 
vent is  not  save  in  anguish.  Our  hearts  bear  Him 
in  blood  and  tears. 

BRYANT.  Stop,  stop!  Enough:  folly!  mad- 
ness! [He  makes  for  the -pantry  door.]  Bentley, 
Pm  going.  You  will  never  see  me  again. 

BENTLEY  [softly].  You  came  to  me  as  my 
Conscience.  You  pursued  me,  you  haunted  me. 
Now  it  is  your  turn  to  be  pursued,  to  be  haunted. 
As  for  me,  I  have  learned  it  is  time  to  face  about 
and  brave  the  terror.  See,  here  is  my  hand. 
[BENTLEY  offers  his  hand.]  Wouldn't  it  be  bet- 
ter to  stay  and  meet  God  together? 

[BRYANT  gapes  at  him. 

BENTLEY.  No?  .  .  .  think:  they  are  all  com- 
ing in  here  presently — Clara,  Rupert,  Lois,  I  have 
summoned  them  to  hear  my  confession. 

BRYANT  [weakly]      Your 

BENTLEY.    My  confession.    Yes. 

BRYANT  [slowly],  I  see.  [With  quiet  cold- 
ness. ]  And  you're  going  to  have  the  magnanimity 
to  restore  me  what  you  stole.  Thank  you. 

BENTLEY  [bowing  his  head].  Your  scorn  is 
part  of  the  price.  But  I  do  not  ask  you  to  stay  to 

135 


GUILTY     SOULS 

wreak  that  scorn.    I  ask  you  to  stay  to  see  a  man 
saved. 

BRYANT.  I  would  rather  die :  I  have  died  once. 
Leave  me  in  my  tomb.  Do  not  disinter  me  for  a 
second  martyrdom. 

BENTLEY  [shaking  his  head].  That  is  not  why 
you  are  in  such  a  panic  to  go. 

BRYANT  [with  chill  ferocity}.  It  is.  I  tell  you 
it  is.  I  will  not  endure  the  ignominy  of  receiving 
my  life  again  at  your  hands.  I  will  not  again  face 
a  court  of  law  and  its  curiosity,  nor  change  the 
spite  for  the  pity — the  unpardonable  pity !  — of  the 
herd.  Send  me  money  if  you  must — I'll  accept  it. 
And  render  me  this  further  justice — give  the  dead 
leave  to  bury  their  dead.  Never  mention  my  name 
till  I  have  time  to  be  out  of  your  sight  for  ever. 
You  put  bonds  on  me  once — suffer  me  to  escape 
now. 

BENTLEY  [calm  but  exalted}.  Go,  then.  You 
will  not  escape.  God  is  upon  your  heels:  you  will 
never  shake  Him  off  any  more  than  you  can  shake 
off  your  shadow.  All  the  earth  lies  before  you. 
Wander  it  as  you  will.  Find  rest  if  you  can.  Soon 
will  God  teach  you  there  is  no  rest  anywhere  for 
the  soul  save  in  His  bosom. 

BRYANT.  A  hellish  benediction!  Bentley,  you 
are  more  cruel  than  ever  I ! 

BENTLEY.  Go,  and  the  blessing  of  a  guilty  soul 
— my  very  guilty  soul — go  with  you. 

BRYANT  [almost  inarticulate  with  pain,  rage, 
and  mortification,  lifting  crooked  fingers].  I  turn 
136 


ACT     FOUR 

your  blessing  back  into  your  bosom:  may  it  prove 

a  curse! 

[BRYANT  vanishes  into  the  'pantry.  BENT- 
LEY  walks  downstage  in  deep  thought. 
Then,  having  consulted  his  watch  with  a 
troubled  expression,  he  proceeds  to  re- 
arrange the  room.  He  goes  to  the  din- 
ing-room table  and  shifts  it  "-ound  so  that 
it  stands  no  longer  up  and  down  the  stage 
but  across  it — remainingy  however,  over 
the  same  patch  of  carpet.  He  pulls  the 
arm-chair  from  the  fire  and  shoves  it  into 
the  left-hand  corner.  He  pushes  the 
little  table-with-the-cigarette-box-on-it 
away  into  the  right-hand  corner.  Then 
he  goes  and  looks  at  the  writing-table. 
He  makes  as  if  to  blow  out  the  candles , 
but,  after  a  gland,  at  the  crucifix,  re- 
frains. Struck  by  an  idea,  he  moves  the 
chair  from  before  the  writing-table, 
places  it  between  the  writing-table  and 
the  revolving  bookcase,  draws  up  the 
footstool  before  the  writing-table,  re- 
moves a  paper — which  he  places  in  his 
pocket — from  a  drawer,  and  falls  upon 
his  knees  on  the  footstool.  He  folds 
his  hands,  closes  his  eyes,  sighs  very 
heavily;  then,  rising,  leans  forward  on 
the  table  and  kisses  the  figure  on  the 
crucifix.  After  this  he  stands  upright, 
passes  his  hands  over  his  forehead, 

137 


GUILTY     S  OULS 

moistens  his  lips,  and,  going  u-p  to  the 
conservatory  doors,  opens  one,  looks  out, 
and  closes  it  again.  He  glances  at  his 
watch.  Someone  fumbles  at  the  handle 
of  the  door  to  the  right.  BENTLEY  goes 
Across  and  unlocks  it,  then  walks  down- 
stage. 

CLARA  [entering}.    Oswald! 
BENTLEY  [turning].    Yes,  my  dear? 
CLARA  [breathless} .    What  are  you  going  to  do? 
What  have  you  summoned  me  for? 

BENTLEY.    It  is  early  yet.    You  will  see. 
CLARA.    Oswald,  do  tell  me.    I  couldn't  eat  any 
breakfast.    Have  you  had  any?    Do  be  sensible. 

BENTLEY.  I  think  I  went  and  found  something 
in  the  night.  I  forgot.  Pm  not  hungry. 

CLARA  [looking  round}.  Your  fire  is  out.  .  .  . 
Your  candles  are  burning. 

BENTLEY.  Yes.  Let  them  be,  dear.  He  shines 
so  brightly  between  them.  He  is  gay — because 
that  which  was  lost  will  be  found. 

CLARA  [coming  and  leaning  on  his  breast}.  He 
is  more  to  you  than  I,  I  fear.  Oh,  if  I  could  only 
understand.  We  have  been  so  happy  together  j 
where  are  we  now? 

BENTLEY  [in  a  soft,  glad  voice}.  The  candles 
glisten  j  the  figure  is  all  gold}  the  room  is  still. 
Frost  glitters  on  the  panes  without:  they  shine 
with  more  than  earthly  splendour.  How  white 
and  pure  the  fields,  the  air  how  cold!  Sabbath  is 
come.  I  rise  from  the  dead.  The  church  bells  are 
ringing. 
138 


ACT     FOUR 

CLARA.  I  think  they  are  ringing  my  burial. 
[She  'puts  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  bursts  into 
tears.]  Fate  is  jealous.  I  have  loved  you  too  much. 
BENTLEY  [panicky].  Don't.  There,  Clara, 
there.  Let  me  go.  If  you  cannot  help  me,  do  not 
hinder  me.  Yes,  I'll  eat  something  now  if  you 
bring  it. 

CLARA  [looking  at  him  through  her  tears].  Is 
that  all  I  can  do?  My  lot  is  hard.  Very  well 
then,  what  would  you  like? 

BENTLEY.     Anything.     Anything. 

[CLARA  looks  at  himy  shakes  her  head,  and 

goes  out  to  the  right. 

BENTLEY  [calling  after  her].  I  am  going  out 
into  the  sunshine  a  minute. 

[He  goes  out  through  the  conservatory  door. 
BRYANT  comes  in  from  the  pantry.  He 
has  a  crushed  look.  He  goes  over  to 
the  writing-table  and  hunts  for  some- 
thing— but  in  vain.  He  pulls  the  re- 
volver out  of  his  pocket. 

BRYANT  [murmuring].  Death!  Salvation! 
Rest!  Eternal  silence! 

[And  he  lifts  the  revolver  to  his  breast.  But 
someone  is  at  the  door.  RUPERT  enters 
from  the  right.  BRYANT  hides  the  re- 
volver behind  his  back. 

RUPERT  [briskly}.  Morning,  Bryant.  Where's 
Mr.  Bentley?  [BRYANT  does  not  reply. ]  What's 
up?  Are  you  ill?  Speak. 

BRYANT  [weakly].  Mr.  Bentley  has  stepped 
into  the  garden  a  moment. 

139 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

[RUPERT  turns  to  the  conservatory  windows. 

RUPERT.  Into  the  garden? — it's  freezing. 
What  for?  [Meanwhile  BRYANT  has  pocketed  the 
revolver.]  What  sort  of  night  did  he  have,  you? 

BRYANT  [strangely].    Restless.    Restless. 

RUPERT.  Eh?  [CLARA  enters  with  a  plate  on 
which  are  grapes  and  some  pieces  of  toast.  ]  Hello, 
Clara! 

CLARA.    Rupert!     You  here? 

RUPERT.  He  summoned  me  by  telephone  late 
last  night. 

CLARA.  Bryant,  you  can  go.  [But  BRYANT 
does  not  go.]  Now,  Rupert 

BRYANT.    If  you  please,  madam 

CLARA.  Well,  what  is  it?   One  moment,  Rupert. 

BRYANT.  I  wish  to  give  notice,  madam.  I  wish 
to  leave  at  once,  to-day,  this  morning. 

CLARA.  This  morning?  That's  very  strange. 
Why? 

BRYANT.  Pd  have  gone  anyway,  madam.  But 
I  thought  to  take  this  opportunity,  in  giving  my 
notice,  to  warn  you,  madam,  Mr.  Bentley  is  going 
to  ruin  you  all. 

CLARA  [stung].  How  dare  you?  Leave  the 
room. 

BRYANT.    As  you  will,  madam. 

RUPERT  [advancing  on  BRYANT].  What  d'you 
mean,  man?  Speak  it  out. 

BRYANT.  What  I  said  I  said.  You  heard  me. 
Now  I'm  going.  None  of  you  shall  stop  me. 

RUPERT.     You  will  stay  here  and  repeat  your 
words  to  Mr.  Bentley's  face. 
140 


ACT     FOUR 

BRYANT  [aghast].    No!     No! 

CLARA.  Let  him  go,  Rupert.  [BRYANT  goes.] 
It's  bad  enough  as  it  is  without  having  servants 
mixed  up  in  it.  The  sooner  he  goes  the  better. 

RUPERT.    But  what  did  he  mean? 

CLARA  [bitterly].  We  shall  soon  know.  Os- 
wald summoned  me  by  a  note  thrust  under  my 
door  late  last  night. 

RUPERT.    And  Lois? 

CLARA.  I  don't  know.  We  breakfasted  in  our 
rooms:  we  usually  do  on  Sunday  mornings. 

RUPERT.  You  know  Lois  broke  her  engage- 
ment with  me  last  night? 

CLARA.  What?  Oh,  if  Pd  only  found  you  last 
night!  Where  did  you  get  to? 

RUPERT.  Wandering  about.  I  didn't  dine 
with  the  Bassetts. 

CLARA.  I  thought  of  leaving  a  note  at  your 
house,  but  I  didn't  know  what  had  happened.  I 
saw  Lois  was  upset. 

RUPERT.  She  said  she  wished  never  to  see  me 
again.  It  was  something  I  said  about  Bentley. 

CLARA.    She  doesn't  .  .?     Oswald  doesn't  .  .? 
They're  not  going  to  .  .?  O  my  God!     Rupert — 
[She  falls  forward.     RUPERT  lowers  her 
into  a  chair  by  the  table. 

RUPERT.  .  .  .  Better?  Don't  rush  to  conclu- 
sions. I  intend  to  tax  Bentley. 

CLARA.  Don't  do  that.  I  implore  you — don't 
do  that! 

RUPERT.  But  only  after  I've  had  the  doctor  on 
him.  When  I  got  the  telephone  summons  from 

141 


GUILTY     SOULS 

Bentley  I  immediately  rang  up  the  doctor.  He 
was  out  at  a  dangerous  case.  The  maid  said  she'd 
send  him  on  when  he  came  in.  I  instructed  her  to 
send  him  up  at  once.  He  should  arrive  any  minute. 
CLARA  [feebly].  Thank  you,  Rupert.  You  are 
good  to  me.  In  this  present  madhouse  you  are  the 
only  one  who  seems  to  keep  any  sense.  [Pause.] 
What  d'you  think  Bryant  meant? 

RUPERT.  We  shall  soon  see.  [Leaning  over  the 
table  and  moving  the  -plate.]  Hasn't  he  break- 
fasted? 

CLARA  [with  her  head  on  the  table].  Ah,  why 
have  I  never  been  able  to  pray?  Now  I  would 
pray  if  I  could! 

[Lois,  unseen ,  has  glided  in.    She  is  fright- 
fully pale,  with  enormous  shadows  under 
her  eyes.     Seeing  RUPERT,  she  backs 
away.    Then  she  moves  toward  the  wri- 
ting-table and  its  crucifix,  -places  one  foot 
on  the  footstool,  and  stands  with  her 
face  covered  by  her  hands. 
RUPERT  [facing  round,  making  a  slight  forward 
gesture].    Lois! 

CLARA  [grasping  his  elbow  with  one  hand,  point- 
ing with  the  other] .  Look! 

[BENTLEY  has  loomed  up  at  the  conservatory 
doors.  He  stands  still  a  moment  with 
struggle  in  his  face.  Then,  using  both 
hands,  he  pushes  both  doors  open,  steps 
slowly  in,  closes  them  behind  him,  and 
looks  at  CLARA,  at  RUPERT,  and,  shud- 
dering, at  Lois. 
142 


ACT     FOUR 

BENTLEY  [weakly].  We  are  all  here.  No;  we 
are  one  short.  [He  makes  for  the  gantry  door 
.  .  .  but  stops.]  Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead. 
It  is  harder  so,  more  difficult  for  me.  No  matter. 
[Change  of  tone.]  I  have  something  to  say  to  you 
all.  [He  goes  to  the  left  end  of  the  table.]  Ru- 
pert—  [He  motions  for  RUPERT  to  take  a  chair 
and  sit  over  to  the  right  of  the  conservatory  doors. 
CLARA  had  risen  when  BENTLEY  closed  the  doors 
behind  him.  Now  she  accepts  RUPERT'S  mute  of- 
fer of  a  chair  which  he  takes  from  the  table  and 
places  on  the  spot  indicated  by  BENTLEY.  She  sits 
down.  RUPERT  remains  standing  by  hery  between 
her  chair  and  the  door  to  the  right.]  Lois,  dear. 
[He  motions.  RUPERT  starts,  but  CLARA  gestures 
for  him  to  be  still.  Lois,  still  covering  her  face 
with  one  handy  sits  down  in  the  chair  between  the 
writing-table  and  the  revolving  bookcase.  When 
she  has  sat  down  she  leans  forward  and  continues 
with  her  face  covered  by  both  hands.  BENTLEY 
then  takes  his  stand  as  before  and  pulls  a  paper  out 
of  his  pocket.  With  quiet  resolution.]  I  have 
something  to  confess:  something  which  must  affect 
all  our  relationships  and  set  our  lives  upon  a  differ- 
ent course.  [RUPERT  bends  over  CLARA.  BENT- 
LEY  glances  at  them.]  Please  hear  me  out  in  si- 
lence. I  ask  no  more.  {Silence:  BENTLEY  speaks 
in  an  even  voice;  from  time  to  time  he  casts  a 
glance  at  the  papers.]  You  see  before  you  this 
me,  the  man  known  to  men  as  Oswald  Bentley:  a 
prosperous,  upright  man  apparently,  till  lately  a 
henchman  of  the  Church  and  a  Justice  of  the 

143 


GUILTY     SOULS 

Peace.  But  into  my  soul  you  cannot  see,  any  more 
than  I  can  see  into  yours.  Every  one  of  us  is  a 
solitude.  And  in  this  solitude  the  most  frightful 
things  are  taking  place.  I  ask  you  to  look  into  my 
soul  for  a  little.  I  shall  excuse  nothing,  hide  noth- 
ing. [Pause.  Speaking  evenly ,  but  in  haste.] 
Some  years  ago  there  came  a  time  in  my  life  when 
I  became  sensible  of  a  profound  dissatisfaction. 
There  was  no  God  in  my  life  and  I  did  not  know 
it.  I  wearied  of  my  existence  and,  unwilling  to 
face  the  true  reason,  I  told  myself  that  in  a  change 
of  circumstances  I  should  find  happiness.  In  this 
thought  I  was  seconded  by  one  dear  to  me,  by  her 
and  her  needs.  But  I  could  not  see  how  to  change 
those  circumstances.  And  then  one  day  a  chance 
presented  itself — suddenly,  with  an  appalling  clar- 
ity and  swiftness.  First  the  base  thought  came  to 
me — through  the  mouth  and  eyes  of  another. 
How  I  remember  those  moments! — since  then  I 
have  spent  whole  nights  reviewing  them.  After 
the  base  thought  came  a  strong  imagination  of  the 
deed — for  this  other  presented  it  in  dumb  show  be- 
fore my  eyes.  I  felt  a  delight  to  see  him  do  it  and, 
when  he  was  gone,  terror,  ecstasy,  and  fury  seized 
me,  and  an  appetite  for  revenge  upon  him  for 
the  many  taunts  he  had  spoken,  and  for  the  very 
fact  that  he  had  suggested  an  evil,  I  was  only  too 
ready  to  accept.  I  remember  how  still  the  room 
was.  [With  growing  suppressed  excitement.] 
Suddenly  my  will  consented — I  felt  a  vertigo  seize 
my  brain  and  whirl  it  round  j  there  was  a  sound 
like  the  sound  of  waters  roaring  over  a  precipice 
144 


ACT     FOUR 

in  my  ears;  and — the  next  thing  I  knew  I  was 
doing  it.  I  recognized  in  a  second  that  I  had 
changed  my  whole  life,  but  I  didn't  stop.  My 
brain  cleared  almost  as  quickly  as  it  had  clouded: 
I  realized  I  must  act  according  to  the  new  circum- 
stances I  had  created.  And  with  realization  came 
a  feeling  of  extraordinary  security,  lightness,  and 
power.  I  had  committed  a  crime.  As  I  stood 
there  I  reckoned  in  my  head  the  chances  I  had  of 
repairing  what  I  had  done  before  Time  brought 
my  deed  to  light.  I  saw  those  chances  were  good, 
and  I  resolved  to  trust  to  them.  [More  slowly.] 
But  evil  leads  to  evil  as  surely  as  the  cataract  to 
the  fall.  {With  renewed  haste.]  He  whom  I 
had  cheated  happened  to  come  upon  the  train  of 
my  deed.  Circumstances  then  made  it  necessary 
to  thrust  the  crime  on  to  another's  shoulders.  With 
the  same  sense  of  clarity,  light,  and  power  I  thrust 
it  on  to  shoulders  most  likely  to  break  beneath  it. 
Once  more  circumstances,  that  ride  you  if  you  do 
not  ride  them,  favoured  me.  I  had  embezzled, 
and  for  that  crime — eight  years  ago — [Lois  rises 
and  kneels  on  the  footstool  before  the  crucifix]  — 
and  for  that  crime — and  for  that  crime — help  me! 
Can't  you  see? 

RUPERT  [staggered].  What  .  .  .  you  mean 
to  say  you  ....  and 

BENTLEY  [clutching  his  own  throat].  Gods! 
though  my  tongue  break  in  my  mouth  I  will  say 
it!  I  stole  your  father's  property,  Adderly,  and 
for  that  crime  I  swore  Vyson  into  gaol. 

[CLARA  jumps  up. 
145 


GU I LTY     S  OULS 

CLARA.  What  has  that  got  to  do  with  what  you 
are  doing  now? 

BENTLEY  [struggling].    Hear  me 

CLARA.  Rupert — look  at  him :  he's  ill.  Anyone 
can  see  that.  He's  mad.  Say  you  don't  believe 
him. 

RUPERT.  If  this  is  true  he's  even  more  of  a 
villain  than  I  thought  him.  Let  him  proceed! 

CLARA.  What  d'you  mean?  [RUPERT  shoots 
out  an  arm  at  Lois.]  You're  crazy,  too.  He  is 
fouling  your  nest  as  well  as  his. 

RUPERT.  Let  him.  Go  on,  Bentley:  you  stole  the 
money  my  father  was  to  give  me,  and  then ? 

CLARA.  He  shall  not  go  on.  [Shaking  Lois  by 
the  shoulder, .]  Lois,  Lois,  leave  that  hideous  thing 
and  your  mortifications.  Wake  up!  Realize  that 
you,  I,  all  of  us,  are  being  ruined. 

Lois  [looking  up  in  her  jacey  coldly].  What  is 
that  to  me?  I  died  yesterday. 

CLARA.  Ah,  you  ninny:  you  make  me  frantic — 
you  and  your  cursed  religion.  [Going  to  the  end,  of 
the  table  opposite  OSWALD.]  Oswald,  I  forbid 
you.  You're  ill.  It's  overstrain.  Your  brain's 
broken  down. 

BENTLEY.  Send  for  the  doctor  then.  Let  me 
tell  him  what  I  tell  you,  and  let  him  testify 
whether  I  am  mad. 

RUPERT.  I  forgot  myself  just  now.  Yes,  he's 
ill.  [He  makes  a  sign  to  her.}  Let  him  babble. 
I'll  stop  my  ears.  The  doctor  will  tell  us.  He 
should  be  here  any  minute  now. 

BENTLEY  [savagely}.  Sit  down,  Clara.  [She 
146 


ACT     FOUR 

sits  down.]  So  you've  sent  for  a  doctor,  have  you? 
That's  modern  civilization  all  over.  Send  for  a 
doctor  to  prevent  a  man  saving  his  soul!  But 
before  the  doctor  has  his  say  I'll  have  mine.  You 
shall  hear  me.  A  doctor!  Larceny — mere  klepto- 
mania, eh?  What  will  your  doctor  say  to  em- 
bezzlement? [Slamming  his  fist  down  on  the 
table, ,]  1  have  the  figures  here.  Embezzlement 
— a  simple  case:  four  thousand  pounds  in  bearer 
bonds  stolen  and  sold  abroad!  Lying,  eh?  What 
will  your  doctor  say  to  perjury — damned,  hideous 
perjury — an  innocent  man's  body  sworn  into  gaol 
and  his  soul  into  traffic  with  fiends  who  shall  work 
upon  it  till  it  is  twice  as  crooked  as  it  was  before! 
I,  I,  Oswald  Bentley,  this  man  before  you  [beating 
his  chest},  cheated  my  client  and  ruined  my  part- 
ner, and  I  stand  here  and  require  judgement  of 
you  and  of  the  world! 

[Lois  rises  and  turns.    She  stretches  out  her 
right  arm. 

Lois.  Do  you  come  knocking  at  the  gates  of 
heaven  as  though  you  would  enter  by  storm — 
you,  the  renegade,  the  robber?  [Change  of  tone.} 
Hush.  Hush.  Those  who  enter  heaven,  enter 
heaven  as  the  martyrs  do,  bound  hand  and  foot, 
helpless,  upon  their  knees.  Turn  your  gaze  from 
them  [indicating  CLARA  and  RUPERT,  without 
looking  at  either}  and  fix  it  upon  Him  [gesturing 
to  the  crucifix].  Mock  Him  not,  or  how  shall  He 
ever  speak  to  you  as  He  spoke  to  the  thief  crucified 
with  Him?  [She  resumes  her  grayer. 

BENTLEY.     Forgive  me,  poor  silent  figure,  and 

147 


GUILTY     SOULS 

you  who  kneel  before  it!     I  have  sinned.     Even 
the  guilty  are  proud.    I  must  submit. 

CLARA  [rising].  Have  you  any  more  to  say,  or 
is  this  farrago  ended?  May  a  wife  speak  yet  to 
save  her  husband  from  ruin? 

BENTLEY.  Clara,  do  not  be  so  bitter:  my  way 
has  thorns  enough  without  your  fury. 

CLARA  [bitterly].    Go  on  then. 

[She  shrugs  at  RUPERT. 

BENTLEY  [very  swiftly].  There  is  not  much 
more  to  tell — only  my  victory,  God's  mirth,  and 
my  ruin.  Vyson  went  to  gaol.  I  was  free.  I 
flung  myself  into  business  with  a  double  ardour. 
Two  things  I  wished  to  forget:  the  voice  of  Vyson 
pleading  on  his  knees  behind  me  that  day  in  the 
office,  and  the  eye  of  God  that  is  ever  upon  us,  that 
is  on  us  now.  And  I  succeeded.  I  fought  as  if 
I  were  fifty  men,  and  I  won.  I  won!  Exists  there 
a  more  cruel  mockery  than  that?  I  was  successful. 
I  became  possessed  of  leisure — what  for?  To 
think.  Ah,  when  heaven  gave  us  heads  it  gave 
them  but  to  teach  us  how  easily  the  brain  is  over- 
set: fever,  the  chance  dropping  of  a  hammer  from 
a  bricklayer's  stage,  will  do  it — and  we  have  a 
thousand  distempers  worse  than  any  fever  in  our 
heads,  and  an  incalculable  jealous  God,  with  the 
most  ponderous  of  hammers,  able  to  break  nations, 
ever  standing  over  us.  To  think!  to  think:  there 
lies  for  the  very  innocent  devouring  uncertitude — 
for  the  guilty,  ruin,  madness,  death!  I  was  vic- 
torious, and  the  eye  of  God  watched  me  carry  my 
head  high — I  enjoyed  power,  and  the  hand  of 
148 


ACT     FOUR 

God  moved  in  obscure  places  to  outwit  me.  God 
is  so  terrible,  so  subtle,  so  patient!  [Lois  rises  and 
noiselessly  takes  the  chair  between  the  writing- 
table  and  the  revolving  bookcase.  She  fixes  her 
eyes  on  BENTLEY'S  face.]  Vyson  was  flung  into 
gaol,  and  God  used  even  that  circumstance  to 
hasten  my  undoing.  Through  the  machinations 
of  fellow-prisoners  it  came  about  that  Vyson  never 
left  these  shores.  Another — not  Vyson — went 
down  when  the  Gigantic  sank. 

RUPERT  [nearly  shouting].  What?  Not 
dead! 

BENTLEY.  Dead  if  you  like,  but  his  spirit  lives 
— they  say  the  spirits  of  the  evil  do  survive  to 
haunt  us — and  his  spirit  haunts  us  now.  It  is  very 
close  to  us.  It  is  in  this  house. 

RUPERT.  Clara,  you're  right.  He's  mad. 
BENTLEY.  No,  not  mad.  Listen:  suffice  to  say 
that  Vyson  found  means  to  make  an  enjoyment  of 
visiting  that  punishment  on  me  which  it  is  the 
prerogative  of  God's  justice  alone  to  inflict.  But 
God  is  more  merciful,  God  is  wiser  and  subtler 
than  he.  Vyson  had  appointed  himself  the  de- 
lighted instrument  of  my  torture  and  destruction; 
he  lives  to  see  himself  the  instrument  of  my 
salvation. 

[CLARA  rises;  Lois  rises;  RUPERT  gestures: 
all  seem  about  to  speak.  The  -pantry 
door  opens:  BRYANT,  pale  and  pinched 
as  a  corpse  enters.  CLARA  violently 
waves  him  away.  But  BRYANT  takes  no 
notice  and  they  perceive  that  he  is 

149 


GUILTY     SOULS 

strangely  dressed — he  has  almost  a  smart 
looky  there  is  a  carnation  in  his  button- 
hole, but  his  red  wig  is  awry.  From  time 
to  time  he  twitches.  He  advances  to  the 
table,  and,  leaning  one  hand  upon  it, 
raises  the  other  for  silence.  Lois  ges- 
tures to  BENTLEY,  as  if  to  say  "  It  is  he" 
but  BENTLEY,  clutching  the  top  of  his 
chair,  is  looking  at  the  table.  BRYANT 
looks  at  CLARA,  at  RUPERT,  at  Lois  with 
dull  eyes.  Then  he  gives  BENTLEY  a 
long,  meditative  glance. 

BRYANT.    Bentley,  I  deny  that  you  suffer  more 
than  I,  though  you  are  the  better  man. 

[He  moves  to  the  middle  of  the  conserva- 
tory windows  and  turns  round.     CLARA 
rushes  to  the  end  of  the  table. 
CLARA.    I  see  it  all.    He  is  the  instrument.    It 
is  Vyson:  this  servant! 

RUPERT.    By ! 

[He  stares  at  BRYANT'S  face. 

BRYANT  [strangely].    Hush.    Hush.    You  are 

in   the   presence   of   the   dead.     Vyson   is   dead. 

Bryant  is  dying.     Madam,  the  husband  you  know 

is  about  to  perish  before  your  eyes. 

CLARA.    Ah!    What  d'you  mean?    I'll  stop  the 
tongue  that  says  so! 

[She  makes  as  if  to  rush  at  him.     RUPERT 

intercepts  her. 
RUPERT.    No,  Clara,  no. 

[RUPERT  pulls  her  gently  back  downstage, 

holding  her  by  the  wrist. 
150 


ACT     FOUR 

BENTLEY  [without  raising  his  head].  Let  him 
finish.  He  can  do  me  no  harm. 

BRYANT  [to  CLARA,  calmly  and  sadly].    Do  not 

trouble  yourself  about  me,  madam.     I  am  going 

....  I  have  stolen  a  ticket  from  Bentley  .... 

[RUPERT  glances  at  BENTLEY.     BENTLEY 

shrugs  and  bends  his  glance  on  the  table 

again. 

BRYANT.  Ah,  madam,  how  strangely  destiny 
moves!  In  other  lives,  under  other  circumstances, 
we  two  could  have  understood  each  other.  You 
and  I  are  very  unfortunate  .  .  .  [He  looks  at  RU- 
PERT.] You,  the  ordinary  man,  are  happy  .  .  . 
[He  looks  at  Lois.  Pause.]  You,  I  don't  under- 
stand you  .  .  .  [He  pulls  the  carnation  out  of  his 
buttonhole  and  smells  it  absently.]  .  .  .  We  are 
all  very  unfortunate  .  .  .  and  if  what  Bentley 
says  is  true  we  are  more  unfortunate  still,  for  we 
are  abused  .  .  .  most  of  all  I  ...  [He  passes 
his  hand  round  inside  his  collar,  clasps  his  hands 
together,  looks  at  them  all  shyly,  with  a  faint 
smile.  ]  I  beg  your  pardon.  ...  I  have  troubled 
you,  made  a  scene.  ...  I  should  have  died  when 
I  was  bornj  good-bye. 

[He  casts  his  carnation,  turns,   opens  the 

doors  very  wearily,  and  goes. 
RUPERT.     Was  it?     It  must  have  been!     But 

what  on  earth ? 

CLARA.    An  instrument!     The  chosen  of  God! 

[She  laughs  hysterically. 

RUPERT.  I'll  stop  him.  {Shouting.}  Vyson! 
Vyson ! 

151 


GUILTY     SOULS 

CLARA  [clinging  to  him}.  You  shall  not.  Let 
him  go.  With  him  goes  our  ruin.  He  is  the  only 
evidence — save  those  here.  As  for  him  [jerking 
her  head  towxrd  BENTLEY],  we  can  trust  to  the 
doctor. 

BENTLEY  [lifting  his  head].  Has  he  gone 
then?  [In  reverie.]  Shall  I  never  see  him 
again? 

CLARA.  Gone  and  for  good.  Now,  Oswald, 
you  have  had  things  your  own  way — we  want  you 
to  do  one  thing  for  us. 

BENTLEY  [suspicious].    What's  that? 

CLARA  [tenderly].    Sit  down  and  keep  quiet. 

BENTLEY.  Aha!  Wait  for  the  doctor,  eh?  I 
ask  nothing  better.  By  the  time  he  has  certified 
me  sane  the  police  will  be  here.  I  telephoned  for 
them  last  night. 

CLARA  [falling  back}.  The  police!  But — what 
—for? 

BENTLEY.  I  am  going  to  tell  them  what  I  told 
you:  I  am  going  to  give  myself  up. 

CLARA.  Give — yourself — up?  [Going  toward 
him  slowly  and  searching  his  face.}  Turn  your 
face  to  the  light.  Let  me  look  at  you.  Is  this  the 
Oswald  Bentley  I  married?  [Suddenly ,  nearly 
hysterical,  flinging  out  her  arms,  screaming.  ]  No. 
It  can't  be  true.  This  isn't  he!  Oswald,  you're 

not !     You'll  break  my  heart!     You're  mad. 

You  must  be  mad.  No  sane  man  could  act  so! 
[She  flings  herself  on  him  and  shakes  him. ]  Come 
to  your  senses,  before  it  is  too  late!  The  police! 
[To  RUPERT,  over  her  shoulder.}  Did  you  hear 
152 


ACT     FOUR 

that?  He  says  the  police  are  coming  here.  Here! 
To  this  house,  his  home,  where  we've  been  so 
happy!  [To  OSWALD  again.]  What's  come  over 
you? — think,  man,  think  what  you're  doing!  Look 
at  me.  Now.  [Dropping  her  arms.]  Let's  be 
quiet.  Say  after  me,  slowly — "  The  police  are  not 
coming  to  this  house."  Say  it.  "  The  police —  " 
BENTLEY  [with  chill  emphasis,  interrupting}. 
Don't  attempt  to  stop  me,  Clara.  The  police  are 
coming.  They  are  coming,  as  I  instructed  them, 
for  fear  of  you,  straight  over  that  lawn,  through 
the  conservatory,  and  into  this  room. 

CLARA  [beating  on  his  breast  with  her  fists]. 
What  are  you  made  of  that  you  can  be  so  obstinate? 
They  shall  not  come  in  here.  Why  should  they 
come  in  here? 

[OSWALD  is  about  to  thrust  her  away  when 
he  meets  the  eyes  of  Lois,  who  has  risen, 
regarding  him.  Lois  lays  her  fingers  on 
her  lips.  Pause.  BENTLEY  carries  his 
free  arm  to  his  head  with  a  gesture  of 
extreme  pain.  There  is  a  shout,  a  crash 
without. 

RUPERT.  What's  that?  That  was  Vyson's 
voice ! 

[He  lays  his  hands  on  the  conservatory  doors. 
CLARA.    Oswald,  if  they  come  in  here  I'll  fling 
myself  on  them  and  they'll  have  to  kill  me. 

[  The  report  of  a  fire-arm  without. 
RUPERT.    What!     Who  fired? 

[He  wrenches  open  the  conservatory  doors. 
All  turn.  He  steps  through  and  abruptly 

153 


GUI LTY     S  OULS 

closes  them  behind  him.     Lois  glances 
toward  BENTLEY.     Their  eyes  meet. 

CLARA  Bulling  at  him\.  The  police!  Run. 
Quick.  [She  is  unable  to  make  him  move. 

BENTLEY.  Clara,  if  you  do  not  wish  me  to 
strike  you,  desist. 

CLARA.    Strike,  then:  that  will  not  wound  me! 

BENTLEY.  Clara,  if  you  persist  Pll  cry  out  my 
guilt. 

[RUPERT   steps   through   the   conservatory 
doors,  and  closes  them. 

RUPERT.  Keep  calm.  Something  terrible  has 
happened.  Bryant — Vyson,  I  mean — has  shot 
himself.  The  doctor  is  witih  him. 

BENTLEY  [with  a  great  cry].  Paul!  Paul!  poor 
Paul! 

RUPERT.  The  doctor  says  telephone  for  an 
ambulance,  though  it's  pretty  hopeless.  You, 
Lois.  Sumpton  nine  five.  [Lois  goes  to  the  tele- 
phone.] It'll  take  ten  minutes  at  least.  He'll 
be  gone  in  five. 

CLARA  [•passionately].  Let  him  die.  Drop 
that  telephone,  Lois.  [She  steps  forward. 

RUPERT.     Clara [He  intervenes. 

Lois.    Sumpton  nine  five. 

CLARA.  He  has  destroyed  Oswald.  Let  him 
die,  I  tell  you. 

RUPERT.  Quick,  Lois.  She  doesn't  know  what 
she's  saying. 

[He  forces  CLARA  into  a  chair  by  the  table. 

Lois.  Sumpton  Hospital?  Send  an  ambulance 
up  to  Mr.  Bentley's — yes,  Mr.  Oswald  Bentley's 
154 


ACT     FOUR 

— Hilltop  Rise — yes — at  once.     Doctor — what's 
his  name,  Rupert? 

RUPERT.    Hastings. 

Lois.  Doctor  Hastings  says  so.  There  has 
been  an  accident — gunshot  wound.  In  the  con- 
servatory, yes,  on  your  left  as  you  come  up  the 
drive.  At  once.  Life  and  death. 

[She  hangs  U'p  the  receiver  and  stands  look- 
ing at  BENTLEY. 

CLARA  {standing  up,  weakly}.  You're  all 
against  me,  but  I'll  fight  you  to  the  last. 

RUPERT.  I'm  not,  Clara — but  you  must  keep 
your  head.  [A  call  without.}  Coming!  {He 
goes  through  the  doors,  -pulls  them  to  behind,  then, 
after  a  brief  pause,  looks  in  and  says.]  The  doctor 
says  you  can  counter-order  the  ambulance.  He 
needs  me  in  there. 

[He  goes  out  again.    Lois  -puts  her  hand  on 
the  telephone. 

CLARA  [coldly].  Let  be.  The  ambulance  can 
take  the  body  to  the  mortuary. 

Lois  [shocked].     Clara,  how  can  you! 

CLARA  [who  has  been  'pulling  herself  together, 
sternly}.  What  is  death  to  me?  I  am  wrestling 
with  life.  Listen,  you  two.  That  man — Bryant, 
Vyson,  call  him  what  you  will — is  dying.  Rupert 
I  can  count  on.  Lois,  you  will  be  silent  about 
what  you  have  heard  in  this  room. 

Lois.     I  shall  do  as  Oswald  wishes. 

CLARA.     Do  you  defy  his  wife? 

Lois.  It  is  Oswald's  guilt,  not  yours.  I  do  as 
he  wishes. 

155 


GU I LTY     S  OULS 

CLARA.    What  d'you  say,  Oswald? 

BENTLEY.  I  say  I  am  mocked  to  the  last. 
Whether  I  confess  or  not,  it  must  all  come  out  in 
the  evidence  at  the  inquest.  The  devil  has  played 
against  me,  not  God. 

CLARA.  Leave  God  out  of  this.  It  will  not. 
You  hire  a  servant.  His  name  is  Bryant.  One 
morning,  after  behaving  oddly  for  some  time,  he 
commits  suicide.  What  of  it? 

BENTLEY.  He  will  have  told  the  doctor — and 
yet — no,  perhaps  not. 

Lois.  Oswald,  be  careful.  You  are  trifling 
with  damnation. 

CLARA  [whipping  round].  Be  silent,  you 
wretched  girl.  [Change  of  tone.]  If  he  does  not 
speak  we  are  saved. 

BENTLEY.    The  police  are  coming. 

CLARA.  Very  well.  We  suspected  mischief. 
The  mischief  has  come  about.  It  lies  in  there 
breathing  its  last. 

BENTLEY.     That  is  not  good  enough. 

[CLARA  runs  over  to  the  writing-table  and 
wrenches  out  a  drawer. 

CLARA.  As  I  thought.  Who  stole  the  revolver 
then?  Isn't  it  mischief  enough  to  have  a  madman 
about  the  house  and  your  revolver  stolen  at  the 
same  time? 

[BENTLEY  comes  over  and  stands  looking 
vacantly  at  the  drawer. 

Lois.    Trapped! 

CLARA.  Silence !  I  am  his  wife.  You  are  only 
a  dependent.  Go  and  pray  if  you  feel  that  way 
156 


ACT     FOUR 

inclined.  May  it  do  you  and  him  good.  For  my- 
self, I'll  fight.  I  don't  give  in  to  shadows.  [She 
nestles  to  BENTLEY  as  he  moves  to  the  fireplace 
and  stands  looking  gloomily  down  at  the  fender.] 
Listen  to  me,  Oswald :  you  want,  for  some  obscure 
reason,  to  give  yourself  up.  Think  what  you  are 
doing — you  have  built  up  a  big  business — you  are 
ruining  that,  and  with  it  Rupert's  credit.  You 
have  acquired  a  reputation  for  uprightness  and 
sanity — you  are  disgracing  that.  If  you  dislike 
business  you  can  retire  from  it:  you  have  money,  a 
comfortable  home,  a  wife  who  loves  you.  [Lois 
falls  on  her  knees  before  the  crucifix.]  I  haven't 
much  time  in  which  to  argue,  and  little  ability:  I 
have  never  had  to  plead  before.  You  see  three 
lives  before  you — Rupert's  life,  Lois'  life,  and  my 
life — and  all  three  you  are  going  to  disgrace  or 
destroy  in  addition  to  your  own.  All  three  persons 
love  and  honour  you:  you  are  going  to  strike  that 
love  and  honour  dead.  I'm  too  proud  to  plead  the 
love  I've  given  you  in  a  room  in  which  I've  so 
often  spent  myself  tending  you.  I  will  say  only 
this :  look  in  your  heart — my  love,  our  love  is  writ- 
ten there  on  the  tablet  of  every  day's  memory 
throughout  twelve  struggling  years.  When  I 
came  to  you  I  was  twenty-three  and  you  told  me 
I  was  beautiful.  Yes,  I  remember  that,  and  how  a 
year  later,  on  the  first  anniversary  of  our  marriage, 
standing  with  me  in  your  arms  you  said,  "  Every- 
thing is  older  and  uglier  by  a  year — only  you 
become  more  beautiful,  more  perfect,  every  day." 
Ah,  when  I  think  of  that  I  could  scream!  And 

157 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

look  at  me  now — look  at  these  lines  about  my 
eyes,  look  at  my  hair  in  which  only  a  week  ago 
I  found  grey  threads,  though  I  am  only  thirty-five. 
I  have  given  you  all  that — but  I  do  not  repent. 
All,  all  I  ever  had  in  the  world  I  have  spent  on 
you.  I  ask  of  you  in  return  only  one  thing — do 
not  persist  in  this  idea.  You  have  confessed  to  us. 
Be  satisfied  with  that. 

BENTLEY  [agonized].  God,  my  God,  where 
are  you?  If  you  live,  hear  and  save  me!  [Pause. 

CLARA  [softly].  You  see,  He  does  not  answer. 
His  love  deserts  you — but,  were  you  a  thousand 
times  more  guilty  than  you  are,  not  mine,  not 
mine! 

BENTLEY  [despairingly].    Lois! 

CLARA.  Hush,  she  is  at  her  prayer.  Listen. 
[Speaking  very  low.]  If  you  do  as  you  say,  you 
will  ruin  her  as  well. 

BENTLEY.    That  is  not  true. 

CLARA  [as  before] .  She  has  no  support  but  you 
and  me,  and  we  shall  be  ruined. 

BENTLEY.    That  is  not  true,  either. 

CLARA  [as  before].  Shall  I  call  Rupert  and  say 
to  him,  "  There  is  Lois:  take  her.  Yesterday,  out 
of  her  devotion  to  Oswald,  she  threw  you  over  " — 
for  Pm  sure  you  made  her  do  it — "  I  do  not  know 
what  is  in  her  heart,  but  now  Oswald  doesn't  after 
all  want  her,  he  gives  you  her  back.  She  hasn't  a 
penny,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  but  she  now  says  she's 
sure  she  loves  you." 

BENTLEY.    Vyson,  Vyson,  you  were  right.    You 
held  my  deliverance  in  your  hand! 
158 


ACT     FOUR 

[He  bends  his  arm  as  if  presenting  a  pistol 
to  his  temple.  The  conservatory  doors 
open.  RUPERT  steps  in.  He  passes  his 
hand  across  his  forehead.  BENTLEY  and 
CLARA  turn.  They  bow  their  heads. 
Silence. 

[with  difficulty,  at  length].  Yes.  He's 
gone.  [Lois  crosses  herself  and  resumes  her 
prayer.}  How  he  sighed!  I  never  heard  such 
sighs.  [His  voice  breaks.  Pause.}  How  hard 
death  is! 

CLARA  [coming  to}.    Did  he  say  anything? 
[DOCTOR  HASTINGS  comes  in  with  a  towel 
over  his  hands.    He  looks  fatigued,  but 
is  still  precise:  a  man  of  the  world,  some- 
thing of  a  dandy,  a  torpedo  beard,  blue 
eyes,  fine  features,  pince-nez. 
DR.  HASTINGS   [closing  the  door  with  care]. 
Er — Mr.  Adderly's  told  you,  eh?     [Lois  rises  and 
faces  the  room.]     Yes,  he's  gone,  poor  fellow. 
Most  extraordinary  case. 

CLARA.  Did  he  say  anything? 
DR.  HASTINGS.  Oh,  yes.  By  Jove,  he  was  set 
on  it  though.  As  I  turned  my  car  about  I  saw  a 
figure  emerge  on  the  balcony  of  the  conservatory. 
Something  about  it  attracted  my  attention.  He 
was  fastening  a  rope.  I  could  see  a  loop  round  his 
neck.  I  ran  forward.  Before  I  got  quite  up  he 
shouted  "  Judas !  "  twice  and  hurled  himself  over. 
It  was  a  small  drop,  and  he'd  miscalculated  it  in 
his  hurry.  His  toes  just  touched  the  ground. 
He'd  not  broken  his  neck,  but  was  strangling.  I 

159 


GUILTY     SOULS 

cut  him  down.  It  was  easy — thin  garden  rope. 
He  fell  in  a  heap,  and  while  I  was  working  at  the 
rope  round  his  neck  he  must  have  whipped  the 
thing  out  and  shot  himself.  Even  there  he  was 
unlucky — owing  to  my  elbows  being  in  the  way, 
I  suppose.  Anyway,  the  bullet  went  in  under  his 
heart,  not  through  it.  Well,  well,  he's  at  rest  now! 
Perhaps  it  was  best.  I  see  a  lot  of  life  in  my  pro- 
fession. Poor  Humanity's  hard  tried.  All  the 
same  .  .  .  yet  I  don't  know,  we  can't  judge.  He 
showed  uncommon  determination.  And  his  face! 
The  witness  box  for  me  again,  I  suppose,  confound 
it.  By  Jove,  there  was  one  thing  he  did  just  before 
he  died 

CLARA  [tip-to*].    Yes? 

DR.  HASTINGS.  He  mentioned  your  name, 
Bentley. 

BENTLEY  [hoarsely].     Yes? 

DR.  HASTINGS.  It  was  a  struggle  for  him  to 
speak  at  all.  He  said,  "  Tell  Bentley  there  is  no 
God."  Crazy,  I  suppose.  Religious  mania,  or 
rather  t'other  way  about.  .  .  .  [BENTLEY  be- 
comes impassive,  looking  at  the  ground.  Looking 
at  the  towel.]  Glad  I  was  carrying  this  [lifting 
up  the  towel]  in  my  bag.  Might  I  wash  my  hands, 
Mr.  Bentley?  They're  very — h'm,  unpleasant 
thing  to  happen. 

CLARA.    I'll  come  with  you. 

[  They  go  out  by  the  door  to  the  right. 

Lois.     Oswald,  don't  let  them  go! 

RUPERT.  I  presume  you'll  ,not;  insist  now, 
160 


ACT     FOUR 

Bentley.  I  shall  have  to  break  with  you,  of  course. 
Our  partnership  will  have  to  end.  But  Pll  say 
nothing.  That  I  have  it  in  my  power  to  ruin  you 
goes  without  saying.  But,  for  the  sake  of  Lois 

Lois  [over  her  shoulder].  That  will  do,  Ru- 
pert. Please  leave  us  a  moment.  The  ambulance 
men  and  the  police  will  be  coming.  Keep  the 
police  round  the  body  till  we  send  for  them. 

[RUPERT  takes  a  long  look  at  the  pair,  seems 
about  to  sneaky  and,  then  goes  out 
through  the  conservatory  doors. 

Lois  [speaking  almost  in  his  eary  softly].  The 
Almighty,  the  ever-living  God,  is  coming  very 
close  now.  We  have  but  a  few  moments  in  which 
to  choose.  Clara  is  busy  explaining  things  away 
to  the  doctor,  telling  him  you've  had  a  breakdown. 
Rupert  is  outside  waiting  to  keep  the  police  back 
till  you  decide.  [Drawing  away.]  I  will  say  noth- 
ing. I  hope  all  the  prayers  I  have  said,  kneeling 
there  while  the  storm  raged,  will  work  for  you. 
But  you  must  decide  for  yourself.  When  you  have 
decided,  I  swear  to  help  you  by  every  means  in 
my  power,  even  if  you  decide  against  God.  For 
it  is  He  alone  in  the  end  can  judge  you — not  I. 

[She  watches  him. 

BENTLEY  [moodily ,  speaking  to  himself]. 
"  Tell  Bentley  there  is  no  God."  Is  that  the  truth 
or  a  lie?  [Moving  into  the  middle  of  the  room.] 
"  Tell  Bentley  there  is  no  God."  Grant  me  a  sign! 
a  sign!  [Lois  tiptoes  after  him.  He  stops  and 
shudders.  Then  he  looks  absently  at  the  crucifix.] 

161 


GUILTY     SOULS 

Your  candles  are  all  but  out.  How  pale  You  look. 
You  have  no  strength  left.  Lift  up  Your  luckless 
head.  Speak  to  me.  .  .  . 

Lois  [tentatively].    Time  runs  away,  Oswald. 

BENTLEY  [slowly].  This  choice  is  not  of  my 
making.  Let  things  take  their  course. 

Lois.    You  renounce  God? 

BENTLEY.  No.  God  renounces  me.  Let  come 
what  may  come.  If  I  escape,  well  and  good;  if 
I  don't,  well  and  good.  I  didn't  ask  to  be  bur- 
dened with  a  soul.  Let  God  do  with  it  what  He 
will — take  it  to  Himself  or  cast  it  into  the  Pit. 

[The  DOCTOR,  followed  by  CLARA,  enters. 

DR.  HASTINGS.  Well,  Bentley,  all  this  is  very 
unfortunate  [jerking  his  head  over  toward  the  con- 
servatory]— if  these  ladies  would  be  so  good 
[shooting  an  interrogative  glance  at  Lois]  as  to — 
er — there  are  some  aspects  of  this  affair  which  I 
think  we  might [CLARA  makes  a  move  to  go. 

BENTLEY.  Hastings,  I've  known  you  three 
years — why  play  the  hypocrite  now?  You  mani- 
festly hate  shuffling.  Clara  has  just  told  you  I've 
had  a  very  serious  breakdown,  eh? — that  I've  an 
idee  fixe  against  myself,  eh?  Come,  isn't  it  so? 

DR.  HASTINGS  [sweetly].  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I 
myself  can  see  you're  overwrought. 

BENTLEY.  Very  well.  I'm  shaken.  So  are 
we  all. 

DR.  HASTINGS.     Mr.  Adderly  rang  me  up  late 

last  night  when  I  was  out  and  left  a  message  for 

me  to  come  on.    That  was  before  this — er — affair. 

BENTLEY  [firmly,  but  quietly].     Rupert  did, 

162 


ACT     FOUR 

did  he?  Well,  he  had  no  right  to  do  any  such 
thing.  Pm  still  master  here. 

DR.  HASTINGS.  Of  course,  if  you  object  to 
being  examined 

BENTLEY.  Pm  sorry  there  should  be  any  un- 
friendliness. Good  morning,  Doctor. 

DR.  HASTINGS.  Later  then,  eh?  Soberly, 
Bentley,  speaking  unofficially  as  a  friend,  I  can 

BENTLEY.  I  believe  you.  We'll  meet  later. 
Say  in  an  hour.  I  don't  feel  equal  to  interrogation 
just  at  present.  The  ambulance  men  will  be  com- 
ing to  take  the  body  to  the  mortuary,  and,  of 
course,  the  police.  You'll  have  to  wait  for  them, 
I  suppose.  There's  the  drawing-room — is  there  a 
fire  in  the  drawing-room,  Clara? 

CLARA.    I  don't  know — I  think  not. 
BENTLEY.     Well,  then — you'll  find  a  stove  in 
there.    Take  a  cigar. 

[He  'points  to  the  small  table  in  the  corner 

to  the  right. 

DR.  HASTINGS.  Er — thank  you — {glancing  at 
conservatory  ]  — well,  no,  perhaps  not.  Well,  then, 
in  an  hour,  after  the  police  fuss  is  over.  Ex- 
actly. 

[He  motions  CLARA  to  accompany  the  doc- 
tor to  the  conservatory  doors. 
CLARA  [/ow].     Keep  the  police  out  as  long  as 
possible,  will  you,  Doctor?     They'll  only  upset 
him. 

DR.  HASTINGS.  Pm  bound  to  say  he  appears 
normal.  A  bit  strained,  that's  all.  Thank  you. 

163 


GUI LTY     S  OULS 

[He  goes.     CLARA  closes  the  doors  behind 
him  and  'plants  herself  in  front  of  them. 
CLARA.    Here  I  stand  between  you  and  destruc- 
tion, and  I  don't  leave  these  doors  till  you're  saved. 
BENTLEY.    You  can  leave  them. 
CLARA.     What?   .  .  .  what? 

[BENTLEY  comes  toward  her. 
BENTLEY.    Do  what  you  will.    I  stand  aside. 
CLARA.    Ah,  Oswald,  I  always  knew  you  loved 
me!     You've  come  to  your  senses  at  last. 

[She  casts  herself  into  his  arms.    Lois  turns 

to  the  crucifix. 

Lois  {to  the  crucifix].    You  forsake  me  also? 
{Fending  off  the  figure  from  her  sight  with 
her  left  hand,  she  leans  forward  to  blow 
out  the  right-hand  candle,  but  lingers  a 
moment  without  blowing  .... 
CLARA.     We  haven't  much  time.     Let  us  go 
over  what  we  must  say  when  the  police  come,  so 
that  their  evidence  will  help  us  at  the  inquest. 
[Lois  listens,  tense.]     We  know  nothing  of  Bry- 
ant but 

BENTLEY  {pushing  her  off}.  Lies!  Lies!  So 
one  crime  leads  to  another.  Have  I  perjured  my- 
self once  to  perjure  myself  again? 

[Lois  turns  about. 

CLARA.  But  you  must.  [BENTLEY  turns  ra- 
pidly and  walks  to  the  fire-place.  CLARA  follows 
him]  Don't  be  absurd.  You  must.  You  have 
done  so  much. 

BENTLEY  {with  smothered  bitterness].  I've 
committed  so  many  crimes  I  may  as  well  commit 
164 


ACT     FOUR 

one  more.      [Louder].     Come,  out  with  it!      Is 
that  it? 

CLARA.  But  if  you're  not  going  to  confess? 
It's  a  mere  minor  necessity. 

BENTLEY  [doggedly].     No. 

CLARA.    But 

BENTLEY.  My  manhood  has  failed  me,  God 
has  failed  me,  but  truth  remains. 

CLARA.     Truth — what  is  truth? 

BENTLEY.  Pilate's  question.  [Almost  shout- 
ing.] By  heaven! — the  choice  is  yet  to  make,  and 
I  must  make  it.  None  escapes  God! 

Lois.  Now  is  the  time!  Now  is  the  hour! 
Beat  upon  the  gates  of  heaven :  surely  they  shall  be 
opened  to  you. 

CLARA.  Truth,  God,  heaven!  [She  laughs 
hysterically.}  What  are  these?  How  d'you  know 
they  exist?  Will  they  give  you  shelter?  Here  is 
my  bosom,  and  my  heart  in  it.  Here  is  my  love! 

BENTLEY  [doggedly}.  Truth?  God?  ...  I 
don't  know.  [Brief  pause.}  But  one  thing  I  do 
know:  whether  guilty  or  not,  I'll  tell  no  more  lies. 
When  I  tell  truth  then  I  cease  to  be  perplexed, 
I  cease  to  be  afraid. 

CLARA.  Ah,  it's  fear  prompts  you:  fear  of 
what?  Will  God  hurl  something  at  you?  But  if 
God  does  not  exist?  Of  being  found  out?  Who 
is  to  find  you  out? — unless  Lois  tells? 

Lois.    I  shall  not  tell.    He  must  choose. 

CLARA.    You  hear  that? 

BENTLEY  [struggling}.  It  is  not  fear.  I  must 
tell  the  truth. 

165 


GUI LTY     S  OULS 

CLARA.    But  why? 

BENTLEY.  Because  I  can  do  no  other.  Lies! 
Lies!  my  soul  revolts  at  them.  Guilty  or  not  in 
the  past,  I  will  not  be  guilty  in  the  future. 

CLARA.  Guilty?  Guilty?  And  what  does  that 
mean? 

BENTLEY.    I  don't  know,  but  I  feel  it. 

Lois  [quickly].  Guilt  is  God's  witness  in  the 
world. 

CLARA  [turning  on  her].  How  dare  you? 
[Turning  to  BENTLEY.]  And  so  guilt  is  God's 
witness,  is  it?  She  says  so,  she — a  girl  of  that  age 
— knows!  [With  sustained  passion.]  Guilt  is 
God's  witness  in  the  world — a  fine  non-existent 
witness  of  the  non-existent  God!  God!  I  tire  of 
that  word.  I  curse  the  eastern  madman  who  in- 
vented it.  The  sun  had  turned  his  wits!  God! 
God! — the  refuge  of  all  that  is  weak  and  second- 
class  and  afraid  of  facing  things  as  they  are.  God! 
— what  do  we  know  of  Him,  when  we  have  seen 
Him? — we,  a  race  of  fugitive  phenomena  on  a 
third-rate  planet!  God! — a  word  for  servants,  a 
refuge  for  the  destitute!  a  comforter  for  urchins 
puling  in  the  dark!  And  this  word  isn't  even 
stable.  They  call  this,  that,  and  the  other  "  God" 
— one  day  it's  the  Absolute,  the  next  it's  Evolu- 
tion-in-being.  And  what's  it  matter?  We  get  on 
very  well  without  Him.  The  fire  is  lighted  in  the 
morning  and  the  breakfast  is  ready.  The  man  you 
say  you  wronged  has  gone  to  his  account.  Nobody 
requires  you  to  give  yourself  up  or  turn  evidence 
against  yourself.  Nothing  is  served  by  raking  the 
166 


ACT     FOUR 

episode  up.  What  do  you  expect  in  this  world? 
A  second  Christ?  A  new  Evolution?  The  last 
judgement?  They  are  unlikely.  We  are  born, 
and  after  a  little  we  die — we  work,  have  regular 
habits,  a  little  music,  and,  if  we  are  lucky,  some 
love  returned  for  the  love  we  give.  What  more 
can  you  expect?  What  more  can  you  want? 

BENTLEY  [weakly].  I  want  to  prove  myself, 
to  know  what  I  am,  what  I  live  for,  what  I  live  by. 

CLARA  \with  sustained  passion,  very  rapidly]. 
An  illusion.  It's  always  the  same  with  men — the 
house  and  humanity  is  not  enough.  They  want  to 
go  outside.  What  for? — to  turn  dizzy  at  the  stars, 
at  the  spectacle  of  the  unsearchable.  As  if  there 
were  any  more  truth  outside  than  in!  Mankind 
has  formed  habits  which  are  the  best  for  getting 
the  world  up,  running  it,  and  putting  it  back  to 
bed  again.  And  man  forms  a  theory  to  account 
for  those  habits — he  says  "  this  proceeds  from  the 
operation  of  the  law  of  God,"  or  "  of  Evolution  ": 
anything,  in  short,  but  what  it  really  is — namely, 
mutual  advantage — and  the  generations  fall  down 
and  worship  it.  And  we  are  expected  to  bow.  I 
have  bowed.  It  was  simpler.  There  are  only  two 
women — the  one  who  in  her  heart  believes  there 
is  God,  and  the  one  who  doesn't.  There  are  no 
mere  doubters.  For  myself,  I  do  not. 

BENTLEY  [slowly].  Nor  feel  the  need?  How 
strange! 

CLARA.  Nor  feel  the  need.  All  the  gods  I  ever 
heard  of  were  cruel.  And  would  you  take  such  a 
decision  on  such  grounds? 

167 


GUILTY     SOULS 

BENTLEY.  It  is  not  what  I  think,  but  what  I  feel. 

Lois.  She  is  right.  It  all  depends  on  this — do 
you  deny  God  or  no? 

CLARA.  No — does  God  exist  or  no?  And  on 
that  you  have  to  judge  whether  you  will  ruin  your- 
self and  us! — on  that — when  head  and  heart  are 
divided ! 

Lois.  Choose:  if  you  feel  there  is  God,  then 
reason  rules  this  life;  if  not,  then  it  is  a  dream  and 
we  need  not  care  how  we  live  it. 

CLARA.    You  cannot  prove  God. 

Lois.    You  cannot  prove  this  life  a  dream. 

BENTLEY.  I  need  God — how  can  I  judge  fairly? 
I  am  in  this  life — how  can  I  know  it  for  a  dream? 
Only  those  who  are  beyond  that  need  and  this  life 
can  know.  [Pause.  Sudden  exaltation.  Almost 
with  a  roar.  ]  I  have  it !  I  see !  Light !  Light ! 
Now,  as  ever,  he  is  judge !  [He  rushes  to  the  con- 
servatory doors  and  flings  them  open.]  Stand 
back,  Rupert.  Stand  back,  doctor.  Let  me  look 
on  him  I  slew,  let  me  look  on  my  judge.  [He 
stands  in  the  doorway,  looking  down,  with  his  back 
half  turned  to  the  room.  Silence.]  Uncover  his 
face.  [BENTLEY  bends  forward.  Then  he  slowly 
straightens.  His  bent  arms  rise  to  the  level  of  his 
shoulders,  the  fingers  are  fully  extended.  He  is 
seen  to  be  vibrating  from  head  to  foot.]  So. 
[BENTLEY  comes  into  the  room  again  with  his  eyes 
screwed  up,  tight  shut,  his  lips  widely  parted.  He 
draws  his  breath  like  one  who  emerges  from  icy 
water.]  I  pity  him.  [Calmer.]  Anti-Christ  also 
bears  our  cross. 
168 


ACT     FOUR 

CLARA.    Pity?     Pity? 

BENTLEY.  It  is  my  sins  have  made  him  so  ugly 
.  .  .  that  too  will  happen  to  me  .  .  .  death  .  .  . 
and  I  must  choose  .  .  .  ah,  what  have  we  done 
that  you  should  torture  us?  .  .  .  why  should  he 
be  compelled  to  such  a  stroke?  .  .  .  Why,  why? 
.  .  .  to  end  it  all?  .  .  .  what  is  that? — to  escape? 
.  .  .  Why,  for  me,  also,  to  escape!  ...  to  hide 
my  head  somewhere  and  never  be  heard  of  again ! 

CLARA  [gently,  with  her  hands  upon  her 
bosom].  Here. 

Lois.    Where  better  but  in  God? 

CLARA  [tensely ,  pointing].  He  is  dead.  You 
say  he  is  your  judge.  Listen  to  his  last  finding, 
delivered  with  stiffening  lips — "  There  is  no 
God." 

[Pause.     BENTLEY  lowers  his  head. 

BENTLEY  [suddenly  bursting  out].  Dead!  He 
should  have  lived  .  .  .  God's  work  has  begun  in 
him !  He  cried  "  There  is  no  God."  Alas,  he  had 
begun  to  fear  there  might  be.  O  Vyson,  the  God 
whom  you  denied  is  wise:  out  of  your  very  death 
springs  my  life.  You,  not  I,  are  coward.  "  There 
is  no  God."  You  dared  not  face  Him. 

Lois  [fiery].  Dare  you?  Time  runs  on.  God 
is  not  patient  for  ever. 

BENTLEY  [downcast].  It  is  true.  I  have  done 
nothing.  All  is  yet  to  do.  [CLARA  runs  forward.] 
Stand  back.  Touch  me  not.  I  am  on  fire.  I  have 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  living  God! 

[RUPERT  comes  in  and  closes  the  doors  be- 
hind him. 

169 


GUI LTY     S  OULS 

RUPERT.  The  police  have  arrived.  The  doctor 
is  talking  to  them. 

[He  withdraws,  after  a  glance  at  Lois. 

CLARA  \weak  y  at  her  wit s'  end].  Oswald  .  .  .  . 
one  moment  ....  Oswald  ....  I  .... 

BENTLEY  [gently].    No,  Clara. 

[He  shakes  his  head. 

CLARA.  Oswald  .  .  .  I'll  say  7  stole  the  bonds 
.  .  .  won't  that  do?  .  .  .  and  you  shielded  me. 
[His  eyes  are  closed.  He  takes  no  notice.  His 
li'ps  move.]  Oswald  .  .  .  Oswald  .  .  .  take  all 
I  have  left:  my  pride  [she  falls  on  her  knees  to 
him,  close  by  the  table.  ]  .  .  .  I  beseech  you  .  .  . 
don't  do  it. 

[BENTLEY  turns  his  back  on  her.    She  col- 
lapses against  the  table. 

BENTLEY  [/oLois].  You  see!  You  see!  Even 
if  I  have  chosen,  how  can  I  perform?  [Gesturing 
back  at  his  wife.]  Does  God  desire  this? 

Lois.  "  Many  must  be  offended  because  of  Me 
this  night." 

BENTLEY.  My  wife,  my  love.  You  know  what 
love  is. 

Lois  [quietly].    You  say  that  to  me? 

BENTLEY.     The  love  she  spent  on  me. 

Lois.    Before  she  loved  you,  God  loved  you. 

BENTLEY.  Her  sufferings.  [Lois  stands  aside 
and  slowly  gestures  toward  the  crucifix.  ]  Vyson  is 
dead:  man's  justice  does  not  demand  it,  can  God's? 

Lois.  God's  justice  did  not  demand  that  His 
own  Son  should  die. 

BENTLEY.    I  am  not  God's  son. 
170 


ACT     FOUR 

Lois.    Are  you  so  sure? 

BENTLEY.  I  cannot  at  such  a  cost:  it  means 
cruelty,  prison,  disgrace,  exile  from  the  love  of 
man. 

Lois.  It  means  love,  freedom,  grace,  home  in 
the  heart  of  God. 

BENTLEY.  No  .  .  .  no.  [He  shakes  his  head, 
sadly.}  Will  you  blame  me? 

Lois.     No  man  or  woman  will  blame  you. 

BENTLEY.  But  to  despise  her  love,  to  ruin  her 
and  hers,  to  do  what  I  must  do,  and  to  live  know- 
ing I  have  done  it!  What  could  God  ever  give 
in  exchange? 

Lois  [fiery}.  Who  taught  you  to  expect  aught 
of  God?  And  who  judged  you  worthy  to  deserve 
it?  Why  do  you  desire  to  cast  out  God  when  God 
opens  his  arms  to  you?  Hell  gapes  beneath  your 
feet,  heaven  opens  over  your  head.  All  the  fiends, 
and  all  the  angels  watch  you  and  He,  who  died 
for  you,  turns  his  eyes  upon  you. 

BENTLEY.  Ah,  I  hate  God!  What  am  I  that 
He  should  require  this  service  of  me? 

Lois.  He  does  not  require  it.  It  is  your  im- 
perfection that  feels  the  need  of  it.  And  why 
should  you  not  serve  Him,  whom  all  creation  is 
bound  to  serve? 

BENTLEY.  ...  I  cannot.  [He  chokes. 

Lois.  Very  well.  Call  in  the  police.  I  acquit 
you.  Tell  your  lies.  [BENTLEY  gestures.  Pause. 

BENTLEY.  How  do  I  know  that  I  am  suffi- 
ciently repentant? — that  this  is  not  some  tempta- 
tion to  pride? 

171 


GU I LTY     SOULS 

Lois  [loudly].  Presume  not  to  judge  of  your 
temptations.  [Softly.]  Does  not  all  seem  bitter 
to  you  but  God? 

BENTLEY  [loudly].  Ah,  God,  Thou  knowest 
that  I  love  Thee! 

Lois  [softly].  But  not  sufficiently  to  serve  Thee. 

BENTLEY  [loudly].    I  would  not  offend  Thee! 

Lois  [softly].  But  declare  I  am  too  weak  to  do 
Thy  will. 

BENTLEY  [softly].    Anything — save  this! 

Lois  [softly].    Thy  crown,  but  not  Thy  cross! 

BENTLEY  [loudly].  Have  pity  on  me!  Thou 
hast  forgiven  sinners. 

Lois  [softly] .    With  Thy  stripes  are  we  healed. 

BENTLEY  [loudly].  The  stripes  of  the  right- 
eous, not  the  guilty!  [Softly.]  Can  God  love 
me — a  thief? 

Lois  [very  softly].  "To-night  thou  shalt  be 
with  Me  in  Paradise!  " 

BENTLEY.  Ah,  if  it  could  be  true  that  He  loved 
me! 

Lois.  Look  in  your  own  soul.  God  loves  you 
much  to  have  stricken  you  so  hard.  You  are  un- 
happy enough  to  have  found  the  Saviour. 

BENTLEY  [to  himself].  Is  it  possible?  .  .  . 
[He  moves  toward  the  conservatory  doors. 
CLARA,  shivering,  draws  herself  up  on  to  the  chair 
and  watches  him.  He  raises  his  hand  to  the  latch. 
She  falls  across  the  table.]  I  perceive  now  how 
long  I  have  loved  Him.  .  .  .  can  He  love  me 
too?  .  .  .  but  if  not  ...  [he  stares  through 
172 


ACT     FOUR 

the  -panes  and,  shuddering,  turns  away.  ]  Yes,  that, 
out  there,  were  best  ...  [in  reverie  with  his  own 
soul.]  "There  is  no  God"  .  .  .  either  that  or 
this  ...  if  no  God,  and  consequently  no  love 
from  God,  a  bullet  were  best  ...  if  God  and 
God's  love,  all  this  pain  were  nothing.  [He  stops 
short.]  Yes.  I  have  solved  it  at  last.  [He  looks 
up.]  Lord,  I  believe:  help  Thou  my  unbelief. 
[He  sees  his  wife.]  And  there  she  lies!  [A  pro- 
longed shudder.]  Lord,  have  pity  on  me.  [He 
lifts  his  clasped  hands.]  What  shall  I  do?  I  do 
not  love  Thee  enough  if  I  love  anything  more 
than  I  love  Thee!  I  am  weak:  Thou  are  strong. 
I  love  Thee,  and  Thou  hast  stricken  me. 

Lois  [fiery].  Knock,  and  it  shall  be  opened  to 
you.  Fall  upon  your  knees.  Beat  upon  His  thres- 
hold with  your  hands!  The  world  passes  away! 
All  is  vanity,  except  to  love  God  and  to  serve  Him 
only. 

BENTLEY  [falling  on  his  knees].  I  am  weak, 
Thou  art  strong:  save  me!  I  sought  Thy  sweet- 
ness, and  Thou  hast  shown  me  Thy  bitterness. 
Bid  what  Thou  wilt  and  give  me  will  to  do  what 
Thou  biddest — but  not  this!  not  this! 

Lois.    Saviour!     Saviour! 

BENTLEY.  I  can't!  I  can't!  [Silence.  He 
rocks.]  Be  merciful!  [Silence.  He  rocks].  Lord! 
Lord!  [Silence.  He  stretches  his  arms  out  wide.] 
Thou  seest  I  am  nothing:  I  am  not  worthy. 
[Crisis.]  What  are  we? — nothing!  [He  bows 
down  till  his  head  nearly  touches  the  floor.  ]  Noth- 

173 


GUI LTY     SOULS 

ing!     [He  bows  down  again.]     And  behind  that 
— nothing! 

[His  face  touches  the  floor.     He  spreads 

out  his  arms. 

Lois  [softly,  holding  her  hands  out  over  him  as 
over  a  victim] .    "  Not  my  will,  but  Thy  will." 
BENTLEY.     Choose  Thou  for  me. 

[Lois  makes  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  him. 

Complete  silence. 

Lois  [softly,  at  last].  He  has  chosen.  [She 
kneels  down  and  raises  him  softly  up.  She  remains 
on  her  knees.  She  wipes  the  sweat  from  his  fore- 
head. She  takes  his  hand  and  kisses  it  reverently. 
His  eyes  remain  shut.}  There,  Oswald,  look  at 
me.  [He  opens  his  eyes' very  slowly.  He  stands 
up.  She  still  holds  his  hand.  He  breathes  deeply.} 
Is  it  so  difficult  to  serve  God?  Is  He  not  merci- 
ful? [Pause.]  Shall  I  call  them  in? 

[BENTLEY  nods.  She  rises  and  goes  to  the 
doors.  Meanwhile  BENTLEY  stands  like 
a  man  in  a  dream.  CLARA  suddenly 
rises.  Lois  opens  the  doors.  CLARA 
goes  over  to  BENTLEY.  Lois  glances 
back. 

Lois  [to  those  in  the  conservatory].  In  one 
moment. 

[RUPERT  steps  in,  giving  Lois  an  inter- 
rogatory glance. 

CLARA  [with  an  insane  look].  There  is  one 
more  card.  [Lois  comes  up  on  BENTLEY'S  right. 
Cunningly.}  Oswald,  I  know  the  secret  of  men's 
174 


ACT     FOUR 

hearts.  Here  is  Lois — give  me  your  hand,  girl. 
There,  Oswald,  take  her — she's  yours.  I  give  you 
all — to  the  last  drop.  [With  queer  triumph.] 
Kiss  her.  There,  now.  There. 

Lois  [aghast y  trembling}.  Clara!    [Wounded.] 

Clara!  [She  covers  her  face. 

RUPERT   [rushing  forward  and  striking  their 

hands  apart}.     I  see  it  all.     Lies,  Clara!     Lies! 

How  dare  you  touch  her? 

[Lois  uncovers  her  face.     CLARA  looks  at 

them  and  trembles. 

CLARA     [stilly}.      What  .  .  .  has    that,    too, 
failed?     Ah,  let  me  die  here:  I  am  out  of  place 
among  all  these  stones!    [She  staggers  to  the  table. 
Suddenly  crying  out.]     Bryant,  Bryant,  where's 
your  pistol?    You  have  four  chambers  left  for  me ! 
[She  runs  toward  the  doors.    The  two  plain- 
clothes  men  enter.    She  falls  back,  veers 
aside   to    the    revolving    bookcase   and 
stands  gasping.     The  plain-clothes  men 
take  up  positions  on  each  side  of  the 
doors.    BENTLEY  turns. 

BENTLEY.  Officers,  I  desire  to  give  myself  up 
to  arrest.  I  have  committed  the  crimes  of  embez- 
zlement and  perjury.  That  suicide  in  there  I  will 
explain.  My  deposition  lies  on  the  table.  Here, 
take  it.  [He  hands  the  deposition. 

RUPERT  [who  has  followed  him}.    Bentley! 
BENTLEY.    Not  now,  Rupert. 
RUPERT.     Bentley,   I — haven't   I   told  you  I 

won't — don't  be  absurd — I  promise 

175 


GUILTY    SOULS 

BENTLEY.  Rupert,  you  can  promise  me  one 
thing.  I  never  loved  this  girl  [indicating  Lois] 
nor  she  me:  save  with  the  ghostly  passion  of  those 
who  seek  and  suffer  together.  Go  to  her.  See 
how  spent  she  is!  If  you  wish  to  atone  for  having 
believed  what  you  were  provoked  to  believe  against 
us,  go  to  her  humbly  and  implore  forgiveness  and 
do  not  cease  importuning  her  till  you  have  it.  As 
for  me,  my  steps  lead  otherwise.  Officers —  [He 
advances  and  turns  round  between  them  at  the 
doors.  RUPERT  looks  at  Lois  and  then  goes  over 
to  the  table  and  stands^  leaning  with  his  back 
against  it,  watching  her.\  One  moment,  gentle- 
men. I  will  wait,  if  you  please,  till  the  ambulance 
and  doctor  have  gone:  I  see  they  are  going. 
With  their  burden  and  with  mine  goes  a  curse  from 
this  house.  [To  Lois,  RUPERT,  and  CLARA.]  I 
would  like  to  give  you  my  blessing  {with  a  glance 
of  corn-passion  toward  CLARA],  all  of  you.  You 
have  been  very  patient.  But  what  is  the  blessing 
of  a  guilty  soul?  Be  happy,  as  I  learn  to  be  happy 
now  in  my  unhappiness.  For  of  this  I  am  sure, 
beyond  all  disproof — unless  we  suffer  we  have 
not  seen  God.  [He  spreads  his  hands  and  stands 
very  still.  Pause.  Revulsion.}  What  am  I  saying? 
It  is  I,  I  am  guilty.  Forgive  me,  all  of  you,  what 
I  have  done,  and  not  that  sin  only,  but  the  special 
sins  I  have  sinned  against  each  of  you  in  these  last 
hours.  [He  glances  at  RUPERT,  at  CLARA,  at 
Lois,  who  has  turned  away  and  covered  her  face.} 
You  are  spent,  but  forgiveness  refreshes  and 
strengthens:  it  was  that  which  made  Christ  able  to 
176 


ACT     FOUR 

bear  His  cross.  ...  Is  there  none  here  strong 
enough  to  make  the  effort?  Am  I  alone  strong 
here,  who  deemed  myself  the  weakest?  .  .  .  How 
strange!  Lois,  you — alas,  how  all  differs  from 
expectation!  [He  looks  at  each  in  turn  again.  To 
himself  y  looking  at  Lois.  ]  Not  even  you,  whom  I 
have  wounded  most?  [He  groans.]  This  also  is 
for  me.  [He  covers  his  face  with  his  hands,  then 
lowers  them,  draws  a  long  breath,  looks  up,  folds 
his  hands.]  My  cup  is  full.  [He  turns  about, 
clasping  his  hands  above  his  head.]  Into  Thy 
hands.  Into  Thy  hands. 

[He  goes  out  escorted  by  the  plain-clothes 
men.    Pause. 

RUPERT.  I  am  ashamed — we  should — yet  he's 
guilty. 

Lois  [rushing  to  the  doors  and  calling].  I  do 
forgive  you.  I  do  forgive  you. 

RUPERT.    He's  too  far  off.    He  can't  hear. 

Lois.  He  must  hear,  he  must.  He  will  raise 
his  head.  [Calling.}  I  do  forgive  you.  .  .  . 
No,  he  has  not  heard.  [Raising  her  arms.} 
Father,  God  in  heaven,  tell  him  that  I  forgive  him. 

CLARA  [cold  and  fierce}.  God?  We  have  had 
too  much  of  God.  Hypocrite:  he  was  afraid. 

Lois  [with  a  terrible  intensity  ] .  If  you  say  that 
I'll  strike  you. 

RUPERT.  Hush.  Hush.  We  have  had  trouble 
enough 

CLARA.    And  shall  have!     Oh,  he  is  damned! 

Lois.  No!  ...  no!  ...  no!  [Lifting  her 
arms.]  Thou  dost  witness  he  is  saved! 

177 


GUILTY     SOULS 

[She  turns  to  the  crucifix  and  kneels  down 
before  ity  stretches  out  her  arms  toward 
it,  as  if  in  entreaty  and  joy.  RUPERT 
moves  over  and  kneels  by  her,  placing 
his  right  arm  about  her  neck  and  stretch- 
ing out  his  left.  CLARA  steps  to  the 
window  to  the  right.  Her  closed  fists 
are  'pressed  upon  her  mouth  as  if  to  stifle 
a  cryy  while  with  rigid  glance  she  gazes 
after  the  departed  group ,  as  if  she  would 
fathom  the  heart  of  him  who  has  gone. 
Through  the  open  doors  the  bright ,  chill 
breeze  blowsy  bringing  with  it  the  con- 
fused brilliant  ringing  of  many  hamlet 
bells. 

SLOW  CURTAIN 


178 


PRODUCTION    NOTES 

All  rights,  including  those  of  adaptation,  transla- 
tion, and  cinematographic,  in  this  play  are  strictly 
reserved  by  the  author.  These  rights  will  be  vig- 
orously maintained. 

ROBERT   NICHOLS. 

1.  General  Mode.  The  play  is  not  to  be  set 
"  realistically."  I  am  not  trying  to  reproduce  life, 
but  a  synthetic  selection  from  life,  showing  the 
operation  of  certain  laws  in  "  the  mirror  held  up 
to  nature."  This  drama  being  a  drama  in  which 
abstract  idea  has  a  large  place  and  psychological 
intimacy  a  still  larger,  the  surroundings  should  be 
as  abstract  as  possible  in  order  to  aid  the  effect  of 
timelessness  and  help  concentrate  the  attention  of 
the  audience  on  the  actors.  Indeed,  for  me  the 
actor  except  in  plays  of  special  genre — such  plays 
as  the  artificial  comedy  of  Wilde,  the  puppet-and- 
fate  drama  of  Maeterlinck,  or  opera  bouffe 
comedy — is  the  centre  of  the  theatre.  I  write,  not 
for  the  scene-painter,  costumier,  property-man, 
or  electrician,  but  for  the  actor,  and  I  go  to  the 
theatre  to  see  actors  act. 

2.  Pace.    The  play  is  to  be  played  at  a  generally 
rapid  pace,  with  special  attention  to  appropriate 
slowings  and  quickenings. 

3.  Climax.    Each   act    is   to   be   produced   in 
relation  to  the  other  acts,  but  each  act  is  to  work 
toward  its  own  definite  climax.     The  climax  in 
Act  I,  Scene  1,  is  at  the  curtain ;  in  Act  I,  Scene 
2,  where  Vyson  kneels  at  Bentley's  feet;  in  Act 
II,  at  the  curtain j  in  Act  III,  where  Bentley  turns 

179 


GUILTY     SOULS 

and  sees  Lois  at  the  conservatory  doors  j  in  Act  IV, 
where  Bentley  bows  down. 

4.  Gesture.    The  play  should  be  rather  "  over- 
acted "  than  "  under-acted."    Any  kind  of  "  stunt- 
ing "  is  permitted  provided  it  does  not  split  the 
ensemble  and  is  expressive  of  the  point  to  be 
driven  home. 

5.  Costume.    A  blue  serge  suit  and  ugly  boots 
for  Bentley.    A  spruce  green  suit,  rather  too  pro- 
nouncedly cut,  a  low,  stiff  "  art "  collar,  bottle- 
green   tie   passed    through    a   scarab    ring,   long 
pointed  brown  shoes  for  Vyson  in  Act  I.     Ill- 
fitting    morning    jacket    and    nondescript    dark 
trousers,  stand-up  collar,  and  shoestring  tie  for 
Vyson  in  the  remainder  of  the  play,  except  at  his 
last  entry,  when  his  dress  shabbily  recalls  Act  I. 
Sir  Hector  Adderly,  pepper-and-salt  spruce  frock 
coat   with   vulgar   stock.     Joe,    much-worn   dark 
suit,  carefully  preserved.    Doctor  Hastings,  short 
morning  coat,  black  satin  stock,  pepper-and-salt 
trousers — he  is  the  best-dressed  man  in  the  play. 
Clara,  neat  tailor-modes,  a  little  harsh  and  daring 
in  colour  and  pattern.     In  Acts  II,  III,  and  IV, 
she  is  much  better  dressed  than  in  Act  I.     Sh£  is 
particularly  neat  in  shoes  and  stockings.     But  it 
must  be  understood  that  she  has  nothing  of  the 
fashionable  lady  about  her — she  looks  more  like 
a  smart  example  of  a  business-man's  lady  secre- 
tary, her  aim  being  rather  to  please  herself  than 
to  please  any  man  she  may  meet.     In  short,  her 
ideal  is  one  of  elegant  efficiency  rather  than  allure- 
ment or  charm.     Lois  wears  a  long  raincoat  in 
180 


PRODUCTION     NOTES 

Act  I,  and  this  rather  disguises  her  extreme  youth. 
In  Acts  II,  III,  and  IV  she  is  dressed  in  a  black 
skirt,  black  silk  stockings,  patent  leather  shoes, 
a  white  silk  blouse  simply  but  beautifully  cut,  and 
wears  a  tiny  crucifix  tucked  into  her  waist  on  a 
black  ribbon  round  her  neck.  Hair,  preferably, 
"  bobbed."  It  is  very  important  that  she  be  dark, 
slight,  serious,  and  good-looking,  and  possess  a 
thrilling  voice.  She  should  be  beautiful  rather 
than  pretty. 

6.  Intervals.     Two  minutes  interval  between 
Act  I,  Scene  1,  and  Act  I,  Scene  2.    Five  minutes 
between  Acts  I  and  II.     Five  minutes  between 
Acts  II  and  III.     Three  minutes  between  Acts 
III  and  IV.    No  music.    No  calls  except,  if  neces- 
sary, after  Act  I  and  the  final  curtain. 

7.  Stage  Effects.     Lighting  up  of  the  office 
with  sunlight  when  Bentley,  after  transferring  the 
papers,  goes  to  call  "Paul!    Paul!  "  in   Act  I, 
Scene  1 .    Sunlight  gradually  dying  away  through- 
out Act  I,  Scene  2.    The  room  uniformly  dull  and 
gloomy  throughout  Act  II.    The  sunset  behind  the 
conservatory  lurid  but  not  "  stagey  "  and  without 
clouds  in  Act  III,  during  which  the  room  is  dim. 
Bright    sunshine    and    panes    glistening    frostily 
throughout  Act  IV.    The  bells  at  the  end  faint  and 
far,  but  crystal  clear. 


181 


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Theater  Art 


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